"Aunt Alice," said Rose, stopping the tapping of her heels, "some way the sunshine down yonder looks almost as if you could take it in your hands." "Tangible light?" said Miss Alice, coming to the porch to look abroad. "What's that?" asked Rose. "Why, just the opposite of 'darkness that could be felt', I think." "Is it?" said Rose gravely. "But, aunt Alice," she continued, "I wonder what I'll do without you here to ask questions of. And how will I ever get along without the Saturday afternoon talks--I've got so used to them, you know. I'll just be awfully lonesome." "We'll have to plan a way to help that," returned her aunt. "Let me see--how would you like to write a letter to me on the first Saturday? Only you must be careful to write what you would be most apt to talk about if I were here." "Oh! I'd like to do that," interrupted Rose. "And then," continued Miss Alice, "I could have a little packet for you at the post-office. Perhaps grandma would let you ride to town with Mr. Dodds, when he goes for his mail, and you could have the pleasure of getting the packet yourself." "That's a splendid idea!" cried Rose. "But what will you put in the packet?" "I don't know yet," replied her aunt. "That will depend upon the letter you write to me. It may be some trifling present, or perhaps a single Bible verse, such as I often give you on Saturday evening. But of one thing you may be sure, there will be something in it that will be a true answer to your letter." [Illustration: AUNT ALICE FAIRLY STARTED.] While they were talking Mr. Dodds' wagon had come rattling up to the gate. Immediately everything was in a bustle. Grandma came out to see the trunk lifted into the wagon--aunt Alice found that she had left her gloves upstairs and must go after them at the last minute--and there came Priscilla Carter running up the road with a great bunch of bitter-sweet, which Miss Alice was to take to a friend. Rose thought it was delightful, and kept skipping up and down the path, wishing all the time that she were aunt Alice, with a new trunk and going to have a trip on the cars. But at last good-bys were said, the wagon rattled and jingled off, and Mrs. Harrison, Rose and Priscilla were left standing quietly by the white picket gate in the pleasant autumn sunshine. When Saturday afternoon came around Rose asked her grandmother for pen and ink. Then drawing a square writing-table out to the porch, where it was shady, she began the task of writing a letter that would tell all that had been going on since her aunt went away. Mrs. Harrison was sitting by the window sewing, and for nearly an hour there was no sound save the scratching of her little granddaughter's pen, or now and then a question from her as to how a word should be spelled. But by and by Rose threw down her pen and pushed her chair noisily back, exclaiming as she did so: "Well, grandma, I declare! I've got it done at last! Wouldn't you like me to read it to you?"