MY VERY DEAR FRIEND:--Circumstances, which I cannot explain by letter, render it _imperatively_ necessary that I should provide another home for my daughter. Her education has been sadly neglected, and she should be where she can have experienced tutors, and good social surroundings. With her delicate organization, and sensitive and susceptible nature, she needs _motherly_ care and affection, and I shrink from committing her to the hands of strangers. I should feel at rest about her only with _you_. You have been my steadfast friend through many years; you have stood by me in, sore trials--may I not then ask you to do me now a greater service than you have ever done, by receiving my little daughter into your family? I know this is an unusual, almost presumptuous request; but if you knew her as she is--gentle, loving, obedient--the light and joy of all about her, I am sure you, and your excellent lady, would love her, and be willing to make her the companion of your children. She is my only earthly comfort, and it will rend my heart to part with her, but--I _must_. Write me at once. You are yourself a father--_do not refuse me_. * * * * * To this, on the next day, I sent the following reply: MY DEAR FRIEND:--I would most cheerfully take your daughter into my family, did my wife's health, which has been failing all the summer, allow of her assuming any additional care. I think, however, I can provide Selma with a home equally as good as my own; one where good influences will be about her, and she will have the best educational advantages. I refer to the family of Mr. David Gray, of Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was my father's friend. The years I was a boy with Russell, Rollins & Co., I was an inmate of his house, and my adopted son, Frank, is now in his care. His daughter Alice is a most suitable person to have charge of a young girl. She is like a sister to me, and to oblige me, would no doubt take Selma. Please advise me of your wishes; and believe, my dear friend, I will do all in my power to serve you. I was sitting down at supper, one evening, about a fortnight after sending this letter, when a gentleman was announced as wishing to see me. I rose and went into the parlor. It was Preston, and with him was Selma, then a beautiful little girl of about eleven years. Asking Preston to lay aside his outside coat, I was struck by his altered appearance. It was four years since we had met, but looking at him, I imagined it might be ten. His eyes were sunken, deep furrows were about his mouth, and his brown hair was thickly streaked with gray. 'My dear friend,' I exclaimed, as I grasped his hand a second time, 'you are not well!' 'I am as well as usual, Kirke. Time has not done this!' Fatigued with the long journey, Selma had retired, and our own little ones were in bed, when Kate joined us in the parlor.