Now, I’m not going to talk about myself any more. I’ve been in New York about four years, and I guess I’ve “made good,” for everything I write is engaged long before it is written. I’ve been puzzling over your signature. It’s the same old name you had when you wore your hair in a plait; and I have two very good reasons for thinking it ought to be different. One is that somebody wrote me several years ago that you had married; and the other is that it isn’t possible—it isn’t _possible_—that the young men of our old state could be so unappreciative as to have let you escape. But if you are married, please, oh, please get a divorce at once, so you can be “Miss Carrie” again. I am trusting to your good nature to accept a little book of mine that came out last winter. You don’t have to read it, you know. It’s just the thing to prop the kitchen door when the wind is in the east. And, Miss Carrie, some day when you ain’t real busy won’t you sit at your desk where you keep those antiquated stories, and write to me? I’d be so pleased to hear something about what the years have done for you, and what you think about when the tree frogs begin to holler in the evenings. Got any tree frogs up there? Do this, and I’ll promise to say “Caroline” next time. Let me say once more how good it was to hear from you, and that I am, yours sincerely, ROBERT HARALSON. _September 28th._ The picture and the book have come. The picture is splendid. It dominates my room. Bobby _was_ awfully fond of me. Lots of things I had forgotten come back as I look at the picture—the night he was allowed by mother after some hours of hard begging to take me to Commencement at the Female Seminary in old Roseboro and sat with his arm stretched on the back of the bench. I did not think it would be nice of me to ask him to remove it, and my back aches right now again at thought of the rigidity of my spine through the long hours of that female evening. You would not be guilty of such a ruralism now, Mr. Cosmopolite. I have written him. It is only polite to let him know that I appreciate the picture and the book. _October 2d. Monday Afternoon._ Bobby’s letter was here this afternoon when I got in from school. Wasn’t it marvellous that it could get here? My eyes went straight to the table and I felt kind of queer and quivery all over when I saw the big square envelope with the bold handwriting that looked as familiar as if I had been getting his letters all my life. Here is his letter: _New York, September 30th._ MY DEAR MISS CARRIE: