"I hoped you'd come this evening," the old lady greeted them. "Is that
Sarah with you? My, my, I don't often have you for a visitor, my dear."

Sarah looked pleased. She appreciated cordial welcome as much as
anyone.

"I told the letter-man to tell Mrs. Hildreth I wanted to see you,
Rosemary," went on Miss Clinton, "because I have a letter I can't read
and I don't want to trust it to anyone around here. They are such
gossips!" she added a little harshly.

"But can I read it?" asked Rosemary, surprised. "I mean will I be able
to?"

"Oh, it's written in English, all right," laughed the old lady, her
bright bird-like eyes twinkling. "I'm not asking you to translate a
French or Spanish letter. I don't believe it will take you very long,
because you are bright."

"We mustn't stay till dark," murmured Rosemary, wondering what kind of
a letter it could be that Miss Clinton was unable to decipher.

"You'll have it done long before dark," Miss Clinton assured her. "Let
me see, where did I put it? Oh yes--look in that jar on the cabinet
shelf."

Rosemary lifted the lid of the Canton ginger jar. It was apparently
empty but feeling around in it, her fingers found some scraps of paper.

"That's the letter," said the old lady placidly. "I put it down on a
pile of old papers this morning when it first came and then when I went
to start a fire this noon, I carelessly tore the papers across and with
them the letter. Fortunately I discovered what I had done in time to
save the scraps, but I can't put them together again. I thought you
could."

Rosemary emptied out the pieces of paper on the table and, instructed
by Miss Clinton, found the paste and a large sheet of paper on which to
paste the bits. Shirley and Sarah sat down on the floor and began
playing with the toys in the cabinet.

"Adelaide has real good sense," remarked Miss Clinton as Rosemary
studied the pieces attentively, "she never writes on more than one side
of the paper. I'd be in a pretty fix, if she had."

Rosemary privately thought that she was in a fix as it was, for the
scrawled writing made no sense whatever, as far as she could see. She
arranged it tentatively, scattered the pieces again and laboriously
pieced them together in another combination.

"Did it begin, 'Dear Aunt'?" she asked desperately.

"Mercy no." Miss Clinton looked up brightly from her crocheting.
"Adelaide calls me 'Clintie' and always has. Usually she begins,
'C