MY DEAR NIECE,—I am about to start for the shore on my annual trip, and intend to stop and see you on the way. I leave here Thursday, and expect to arrive in Auburn some time Friday. I intended to let you know before, but I have been very busy attending to my wardrobe, and have neglected less important things. You never make much fuss over me when I come, so I knew I could break the monotony of the long trip east without inconveniencing you. Your last letter said you were not very well. Of course I regret to hear that, but you cannot expect me to express sympathy for what is obviously your own fault. New Thought stands ready to help you, and until you are willing to accept its teachings, you cannot hope to have peace of either mind or body. I shall do my best to convince you of this when I come. I understand that Barbara is with you. I am anxious to see that college life, of which I never approved, has improved her. I shall telegraph you later when to meet me. Your affectionate aunt, SARAH T. BOSSALL. P.S.—I neglected to say that I shall bring Edward’s boys with me. Barbara laid down the sheet of paper, and sat looking at it with troubled eyes. “What’s the matter?” asked Gassy. “She’s coming, _to-morrow_!” groaned Barbara; “and she’s going to bring those awful grandchildren of hers. That means that one of us will have to give up a room, and sleep in the attic. And to-morrow is sweeping-day, and not a thing baked in the house, and father away, and David half-sick, and only me to do the cooking for nine people! And Mrs. Clemens can’t take us to board; father asked her before he left.” Gassy looked equally disconsolate. “I just hate those Bossall boys,” she said; “they fight all the time, and grab the best pieces, and call you red-head, and brag about living in the city. Archie’s the biggest cry-baby I ever saw, and Nelson’s an awful liar, and that Freddy hasn’t even sense enough to keep his stockings up; they’re always in rolls about his ankles.” Barbara listened unhearingly. “Aunt Sarah always expects to be ‘entertained.’ And she’s so particular that I just dread to have her come inside the house. During this hot weather I’ve been letting things go a little, and I know she’ll comment on the way they look. It doesn’t seem as though I _could_ do any more work than I have been doing! What _shall_ I do, Gassy?” “We might go out and see the Vegetable Man’s daughter,” suggested Gassy, flattered at being taken into consultation. “I think that’s the only thing left,” agreed Barbara; “ask Sam to harness Maud S., and I’ll put on my hat while you’re gone. You may go with me, if you want to.” Grassy looked wistful. “I s’pose if I stayed, I could pare the potatoes for you,” she said hesitatingly.