it in a vase
under my mother's picture? That shall be the annual rent paid
for the Yellow House to Lemuel Hamilton by the Careys!

Tears of joy sprang to the eyes of emotional Nancy. She rose to her feet
and paced the greensward excitedly.

"Oh, mother, I didn't think there could be another such man after
knowing father and the Admiral. Isn't it all as wonderful as a fairy
story?"

"There's a little more; listen, dear."

As to the term of your occupancy, the Careys may have the Yellow
House until the day of my death, unless by some extraordinary
chance my son Tom should ever want it as a summer home.

"Oh, dear! there comes the dreadful 'unless'! 'My son Tom' is our only
enemy, then!" said Nancy darkly.

"He is in China, at all events," her mother remarked cheerfully.

Tom is the only one who ever had a bit of sentiment about
Beulah, and he was always unwilling that the old place should
be occupied by strangers. The curious thing about the matter
is that you and yours do not seem to be strangers to me and
mine. Do you know, dear little Miss Nancy, what brought the
tears to my eyes in your letter? The incident of your father's
asking what you could do to thank the Yellow House for the
happy hour it had given you on that summer day long ago, and the
planting of the crimson rambler by the side of the portico. I
have sent your picture tying up the rose,--and it was so
charming I was loath to let it go,--with your letter, and the
snap shot of the family group, all out to my son Tom in China.
He will know then why I have let the house, to whom, and all
the attendant circumstances. Trust him never to disturb you
when he sees how you love the old place. The planting of that
crimson rambler will fix Tom, for he's a romantic boy.

"The planting of the rose was a heavenly inspiration if it does 'fix
Tom!' We'll call Tom the Chinese Enemy. No, we'll call him the Yellow
Peril," laughed Nancy in triumph.

I am delighted with the sample of paper you have chosen for the
front hall.

"I don't see why you didn't go over to Germany yourself, Nancy, and take
a trunk of samples!" cried Mrs. Carey, wiping the tears of merriment
from her eyes. "I can't think what the postage on your letter must have
been."

"Ten cents," Nancy confessed, "but wasn't it worth it, Muddy?--Come,
read the last few lines, and then we'll run all the way home to