I hope you every one miss me as much as I do you! Really and truly, I am dreadfully homesick for school! But this is my special letter, so I must not take time for anything else. I’m sorry I promised to write the first one, because I don’t know just how to write it, and I have such a mean, silly little story to tell, that I’m ashamed of it, anyhow. I chose that verse about “confessing before men,” for the one to write my letter on. And I meant to go to the young people’s meeting, and to the Band, and confess Him in some way that would be nice to tell; and I didn’t do anything of the kind. Don’t you think my story is about a cat! Who would have supposed that a cat would get mixed up with a verse like that? We went to grandma’s, as usual, for the month of November, but things there were very unusual, for aunt Kate was married, and the house was full of company and confusion. It is about the wedding day that I’m to tell you. I wish you could have seen the tables after they were ready. They did look too lovely for anything! The central table was magnificent. All the old silver and queer, quaint china which have been in grandma’s family for ages, had been brought out for decoration, and people say that the tablecloth was the finest piece of old damask that has ever been used in this part of the world. If I had Nettie’s descriptive powers, I could give you a picture of the whole; but as it is, I want you to confine your attention to one dish—the loveliest cut-glass beauty that was ever seen. It was amber-colored sometimes, with little threads of crimson running through it, which reminded one of a sunset. Besides, it was a very peculiarly-shaped dish, and as frail as a cobweb. Uncle Fred found it in Paris, and brought it to the bride. Uncle Fred, you understand, is the bridegroom. Well, it was on the special wedding table, just before the bride’s seat, and was filled with the most exquisite flowers. Grandma did not want the dish used, because it was so frail and so rare, but aunt Kate insisted that it should be placed just there, and be filled with orange-buds. Grandma had just seen that the very last touches had been put to the table, and had taken the children in for a look, and then had said, as she shut the dining-room door: “Now, don’t one of you children open that door again. I wouldn’t have anything go wrong in there for a great deal.” Then she went up to take a last look at aunt Kate, before she became Mrs. Fred Somerville. Just at that moment little Sallie Evans came running down the hall, her eyes full of tears. Her mamma had called her just as grandma took the children in to see the tables, and she had missed the sight. “And now I sha’n’t see them at all, till everything is spoiled,” she said, “for they aren’t going to let the little bits of cousins come to the first table.” And she sobbed outright.