"'We're the very happiest family you ever saw. Virginia fits in better every day. She's learning such sweet manners--I tell Dad it just shows she must be sweet inside! She's learning to read and to write, too. We have a lesson every morning after breakfast. The other day I bought the pattern of a little dress, and Mrs. Shute helped me cut it out and make it. I never felt so proud in all my life. I'm obliged to be more _vigilant_ than ever, because Virginia does and says everything that I do. The other day I said I should certainly die if I didn't get a letter from some of you, and she was quite frightened. So I guess I'll have to be more moderate in speech after this. "'There's one thing more I must tell you before I stop. I saw Imogene the other day. Dad and Virginia and I were walking by one of the big hotels here, when an automobile came up to the curbing. You can just imagine how surprised I was when Imogene and Mrs. Meredith stepped out. There was a young man with them whom I didn't like very well. He had a queer way of looking at you, and was over-dressed, I thought. Imogene looked very handsome, and, oh, loads older! I felt a perfect baby beside her! Mrs. Meredith was just the same, only even more elaborately gowned than she used to be when she visited Imogene. Imogene was as surprised as I was, I think, though she didn't show it. She and her mother shook hands with me, and she introduced her friend. I was so excited I didn't hear his name at all. She told me she was going to be married at Christmas time, and so wouldn't be back at St. Helen's, and Mr. Whoever-he-was laughed and said Imogene had been to school long enough. Dad and I asked them to tea with us, but they said they were just hurrying through and couldn't come. "'When they left us and went into the hotel I had the queerest feeling. 'Twas just as though I had said good-by to Imogene forever--just as though she'd gone away into a different world. And the queerest part of it all was that I didn't care very much. It seemed years since I had cared for her--years since we had done things together at St. Helen's. That night after I had put Virginia to bed, and come out on the porch with Dad, a big machine flew by our house. I heard some one laugh, and knew it was Imogene. She hadn't been hurrying through; she just hadn't cared to come. I suppose it ought to have hurt me, but it didn't. I was glad she'd stopped caring, too, the way I had. Then, at least, neither of us would be hurt. The only thing I'm sorry about is that Imogene has gone into that kind of a world. I don't believe it can give the best kind of happiness, do you?