She thought of all the joys the day had brought her, such unexpected pleasures that it seemed as if her heart would burst with gladness; she thought of the girls who had done so much to give her this beautiful holiday; she thought of the scene on the stairs, and of Bertha's words, which, without a particle of conceit, she felt were the truth; she thought of Tom away at college, and wondered if his holiday had been as delightful as hers; she thought of the friends at Silver Bow, of Aunt Maria in the East, of the stern father keeping lonely vigil on the desert, and here her thoughts lingered. Had he received the calendar she sent him, and was he glad? What had prompted him to buy her the lovely gifts the express box had contained? Was he, after all, growing to be like jolly Mr. Carson? His remembrance had been the crowning touch of the day. How could she ever thank him? An idea suddenly popped into her mind as if in answer to her question, but she frowned at it, shook her head, protested that she could never do such a thing, and then--she did it. Creeping carefully, noiselessly out of bed, she threw a kimono over her nightgown, turned on the electric light, drew out writing materials and began her first letter to the father whom she did not know or understand. "Dear Father," she wrote, "I take my pen in hand to try to express in a feeble measure my deep and sincere gratitude for the many beautiful gifts you have sent me-- "Oh, rats!" The pen stopped its deliberate movements, the paper was roughly crumpled and flung into the waste basket. "That would make him sick with disgust. What in the world shall I say? "Dear Father,--The Christmas box arrived this morning and its contents are greatly appreciated, I can assure you. How am I ever to thank you enough!-- "Certainly not by such a stilted scribble as that. Sounds as if I might be addressing the president of the Associated Charities. Oh, dear, it is such a piece of work to write to one's father! Carrie never has half the fuss; but then I don't suppose I would either if Dad was like Mr. Carson--or Tom. That's it. I will just pretend I am writing to Tom; I can say anything to him. Here goes! "Dear Dad,--The things arrived this morning, and they are-- "Shall I say 'bully'? Tom would, but that is a boy's word, and it is slang besides. Miss Pomeroy says a lady doesn't use slang. I will use 'great'. No, that isn't much better. Well, 'splendid' will do." The busy pen went on scratching until the page was filled, then a second, a third, and still she had not finished. The clock struck midnight, then one; and with a flourish, Tabitha wrote at the bottom of the tenth closely scribbled page, "With love, Tabitha," sighed with weary satisfaction, folded the sheets neatly, and slipped them into an envelope just as Chrystobel's eyes opened and the surprised girl inquired sleepily, "Whatever are you doing, Kitty, up at this time of night?" "Writing a letter." "Couldn't you wait until morning?"