“Well, of course,” put in Gassy, “the Kid is always used to plenty of food, you see.” Miss Bates glared again. “Is that why he wants to eat up my plums?” she inquired. “No, Barbara, I’ll take ’em back, since you won’t let David eat ’em. And I want to tell you now, that I don’t intend to come to this house again under any circumstances, since these children are so rude, till your ma comes home, no matter _how_ long it is!” “But she’s coming home to-day!” burst from both David and Gassy, in dismayed unison. Miss Bates gave them a queer look, flashed a disdainful glance at Barbara, and left the house. “It’s no use to scold you, Charles,” said Barbara, as she extricated the child from his hiding-place. “But I am glad that mother is coming to take the burden of your dreadful speeches. Now see if you _can_ stay good until supper-time.” She left the room to arrange the details of the feast, and as she passed through the hall, she came upon the letter marked “Personal” which she had left forgotten on the table. “I declare!” said she, sitting down on the stairs again. “I believe I am going crazy with joy to-day. I have forgotten one thing after another.” She opened the letter eagerly, and as she did so, stray words caught her eye,—“undoubted talent,”—“unquestionable success,” etc. She turned to the first page and read:— DEAR LITTLE GIRL,—For you are a little girl to me, and always will be, in spite of your twenty-one years,—I have something to tell you which cannot wait until I reach home. It is also somewhat of a confession, and I am sure that you will absolve me when you have read this. I wonder if you have realized how very entertaining your letters have been, and what a godsend they were to me in this tedious place. They were so clever that I could not help reading them to a few of the friends whom I have made here. One of them is Hugh S. Black, whom I have often mentioned, you remember, and who has been slowly recovering from an attack of nervous prostration. He grew very much interested in your letters,—so much so, that I had not the heart to refuse to read them. I told him of your desire to write, and of the piles of rejected psychological studies which have been mounting up on your desk. In fact, you told him, yourself, although you were not aware of it. We have often talked you over, and he thinks that you have undoubted talent, and can gain unquestionable success in writing for publication, if you will be willing to attempt the kind of things that lie within your own experience. Mr. Black said the other day, “Your girl has wit, humor, an excellent power of description, the faculty of seeing things as they are, and of describing them from an original point of view. Why won’t she write stories or sketches dealing with every-day life, instead of such nonsense as ‘The Effect of Imagination on the Habits of the Child’?”