Dear Friend,--I have just been picking flowers and they reminded me of your letter. I have not forgotten you; everything that is beautiful makes me think of those days when you were here--we had such a good time; at least, I did. I should like to hear from you often, but I don't want you to think that I care so very, very much. I wouldn't want to have you try to remember me. I still have my troubles, but they are not quite so dreadful. Last night my father brought home another young man. I do not like him; he has such a queer way of staring into my eyes, and can talk of nothing but dogs and horses. Fannie has come back, and Sam is with her. He is going to take care of the garden and the grounds until they can find a farm. Fannie says that he has got over being afraid and is very affectionate. I think of you often, and of those pleasant evenings that we had together, and of all that you went through. I wonder if you would dare come again! Well, I am sure that I shall never get another letter from you, even, but I wish you good luck, anyway. Yours truly, Jo. P. S.--I have made this letter short for fear it would bore you. It was my first letter from a fair maid, and what a state of mind it put me in! My mother read it with a smile. “It's a pretty letter,” said she. “Not so pretty as Jo,” I answered. Then I told about my visit in Summerville. “And the girl is alone with that old drunkard?” said my mother. “Yes.” “Too bad! I wish I could see her.” “I love her,” I said, soberly. “Child!” she exclaimed, “you're not yet sixteen.” “A boy has feelings,” I protested. “If I'm not in love, I'd like to know what it is that makes me feel as I do. I would die for her.” “Yes--yes, I know,” she answered, holding my hand in hers. “I was like you when I was a young miss--thought I was in love two or three times when I was not. Write to her if you wish, but you must be fair to her. Don't say a word about it until you see if it lasts. She may not care for you, anyway.” This letter made me sure that she did care for me, however, and that and others like it were, indeed, the treasures of my youth. The notion of being fair to her grew in me, for, after all, my heart had had its change, and was it now to be wholly trusted? Mr. McCarthy met us at the stairs. “I've been reading your three commandments,” said he to my mother. “Are they in the Bible?” “Yes; but I got them out of the Book of Nature,” said she. “You learn to be truthful by the study of men, for what is a man unless he is himself--the thing he pretends to be? Kindness--I learned that from the earth, where we all reap as we sow, and everything that lives teaches us to be happy. These birds and flowers--see how happy they are! And this boy of mine just returned from the path of error--who could be happier than he is?” “That's sound,” said the hand-made gentleman. “I'm going to write it down in my book.” He sat down and wrote while she helped him a little in the phrasing of his notes.