“But to come to the object of this letter. Did you ever hear of Ridgefield? No? Well, that shows a lack in your education. It’s a lovely town, famous principally because my grandfather, Gen. Allen, lived and died and is buried there, and Zacheus Taylor watched with him the night he died and keeps the Prospect House, a perfectly delicious house, with all the towels you want, and silver forks and two faucets and blooded horses, Paul and Virginia, all of which and more is set forth in the letter I enclose from the dear old man. I don’t care much for the country,—the real article I mean,—with its dusty roads and horn bugs and worms and stupid people, aping last year’s fashions, but something draws me to Ridgefield, and mamma and I are going there to spend the summer and rest and get back some of the good looks I lost being so gay abroad and so seasick coming home. And _you_ are to go with us. Mamma says so, and I am writing to tell you to meet us in Springfield, July —, in the afternoon. No dress needed. I shall not take much, and if there should be a quilting, or sewing society, or church social you’ll have that love of a gown I bought for you in Paris and which I shall bring. “Only think, what a gorgeous time we’ll have, just ourselves. You and I, and not a man to bother. There may be a bartender or something, I presume there is, but he don’t count. Nobody to dress for, or pose for, or keep myself always with the same angelic expression. No need of the blue book. Guess I shall leave it at home unless you want to see the new names in it. One, a poor insipid lad, who asked me point-blank how much mamma was worth. I told him 500,000, meaning pennies, but he understood it dollars, and at once offered me his title in exchange. I laughed in his face and he looked astonished.” Here Helen was interrupted by her maid bringing her a letter the postman had just left. It was from a girl friend living in Boston, who had returned from abroad in the same vessel. After the usual chitchat of girls who have seen the same places and know the same people, she wrote, “Boston is like a graveyard. Everybody out of town and some in the most unheard-of places. By the way, you don’t know the Masons, so their whereabouts has no interest for you. I can’t endure them, they are so stuck up and prim, but they are the Masons for all that, and their doings of importance. Well, they have gone to a little inland town,—Ridgefield is the name,—to spend the summer, and I dare say are very happy there, as no _canaille_ can brush against them, and Mrs. Mason will not be shocked by what she calls second-class in young people who are just lively, and she will not be afraid some girl will look at Craig. Pity you never had a chance at him.”