Lucinda looked at Joshua and felt a keen desire to throw her flatiron at him. The world always thinks that the Lucindas have no feelings; the world never knows how near the flatirons come to the Joshuas often and often. Arethusa came for two days and looked the situation well over. “I think I won’t stay,” she said to Lucinda, “but you must write me twice a week and I’ll write the others.” Then Arethusa departed and Lucinda remained alone to superintend things and be superintended by Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary’s superintendence waxed extremely vigorous almost at once. She had out her writing desk, and wrote Jack a letter, as a consequence of which everything published in New York was mailed to his aunt as soon as it was off the presses. Lucinda was set reading aloud and, except when the mail came, was hardly allowed to halt for food and sleep. “My heavens above,” said the slave to Joshua, “it don’t seem like I can live with her!” “You’ll live with her,” said Joshua. “It’s more as flesh and blood can bear.” “Flesh and blood can bear a good deal more’n you think for,” said Joshua, and then he delivered up two letters and drove off toward the barn. “If those are letters,” said Aunt Mary from her pillow the instant she heard the front door close, “I’d like ’em. I’m a great believer in readin’ my own mail, an’ another time, Lucinda, I’ll thank you to bring it as soon as you get it an’ not stand out on the porch hollyhockin’ with Joshua for half an hour while I wait.” Lucinda delivered up the letters without demanding what species of conversational significance her mistress attached to the phrase, “holly-hocking.” Aunt Mary turned the letters through eagerly. “My lands alive!” she said suddenly, “if here isn’t one from Mitchell,—the dear boy. Well, I never did!—Lucinda, open the blinds to the other window, too—so I—can—see to—” her voice died away,—she was too deep in the letter to recollect what she was saying. Mitchell wrote: MY DEAR MISS WATKINS:— We are sitting in a row with ashes on the heads of our cigarettes mourning, mourning, mourning, because we have had the news that you are ill. As usual it is up to me to express our feelings, so I have decided to mail them and the others agree to pay for the ink. I wish to remark at once that we did not sleep any last night. Jack told us at dinner, and we spent the evening making a melancholy tour of places where we had been with you. If you had only been with us! The roof gardens are particularly desolate without you. The whole of the city seems to realize it. The watering carts weep from dawn to dark. All the lamp-posts are wearing black. It is sad at one extreme and sadder at the other.