Louis was ten years old and I was nine. As he was older and a boy, he of course, considered that he had the right to the last word. Now kicks had replaced words; but as we were seated at quite a distance from one another, we did not succeed in causing very great damage to each other's shins. Notwithstanding this, I began to lose patience, and in order to end the matter, knowing that Louis was not very courageous, I leaned my chair as far inside as I could and let him have one terrific kick. At this, his face changed color and my father now disturbed by the extra noise of my kick, finally began to realize what was happening. I do not know how matters would have terminated, if Teresa had not at this moment come into the garden with a black-bordered letter in her hand which she delivered to our father. He took it silently and opened it as Teresa carried away the tea-pot. I saw immediately by my father's expression that the letter carried serious news, and I am sure Louis noticed it also for he completely forgot to return my kick. "Teresa!" called my father. "All right, I'm coming," said that good lady. "Read this, and tell me what you think of it," and my father handed the letter to the old servant. Teresa seated herself at the end of the table between Louis and me, and with her head in her hand commenced to read--Teresa was not very well-educated and she read the letter very slowly and half-aloud. "Who wrote this?" was her first question. "The Pastor of the village," replied my father. "A minister!" exclaimed Teresa. "He's a mighty poor writer for a minister, and no doubt his mother paid mighty well for his 'education.'" My father smiled a bit sadly. "You don't understand it, Teresa?" "Yes, yes; I understand half of it, and I think I can guess at the other half." "Do you want me to help you?" offered Louis. Teresa looked scornfully at Louis-- "You! I should say not! You don't care to help me in the kitchen or run errands for me, and the only thing the matter with you now is curiosity!" That settled Louis, and Teresa went on with her reading. Bending her great fat form more and more closely over the letter, she became more serious as she neared the bottom of the fourth page where the writing became so close and so fine that it was hardly possible to decipher it. When, at last, she lifted her head, her eyes were full of tears. "Poor, poor little thing!" she repeated softly. "Well, what do you think?" said my father. "What do I think? Why we must send at once and have her come here as soon as possible, because--" "Who?" my father interrupted her without ceremony. "Yes; who? who?" questioned Louis. "Tell us, father, please," added my sister Rosa, a tall, serious girl of fifteen. And as he did not answer us quickly our questions multiplied. "Patience! Patience!" cried my father; "your turn will come."