he could never do such a thing, and then--she did
it.

Creeping carefully, noiselessly out of bed, she threw a kimono over her
nightgown, turned on the electric light, drew out writing materials and
began her first letter to the father whom she did not know or
understand.

"Dear Father," she wrote, "I take my pen in hand to try to express in a
feeble measure my deep and sincere gratitude for the many beautiful
gifts you have sent me--

"Oh, rats!" The pen stopped its deliberate movements, the paper was
roughly crumpled and flung into the waste basket. "That would make him
sick with disgust. What in the world shall I say?

"Dear Father,--The Christmas box arrived this morning and its contents
are greatly appreciated, I can assure you. How am I ever to thank you
enough!--

"Certainly not by such a stilted scribble as that. Sounds as if I might
be addressing the president of the Associated Charities. Oh, dear, it is
such a piece of work to write to one's father! Carrie never has half the
fuss; but then I don't suppose I would either if Dad was like Mr.
Carson--or Tom. That's it. I will just pretend I am writing to Tom; I
can say anything to him. Here goes!

"Dear Dad,--The things arrived this morning, and they are--

"Shall I say 'bully'? Tom would, but that is a boy's word, and it is
slang besides. Miss Pomeroy says a lady doesn't use slang. I will use
'great'. No, that isn't much better. Well, 'splendid' will do."

The busy pen went on scratching until the page was filled, then a
second, a third, and still she had not finished. The clock struck
midnight, then one; and with a flourish, Tabitha wrote at the bottom of
the tenth closely scribbled page, "With love, Tabitha," sighed with
weary satisfaction, folded the sheets neatly, and slipped them into an
envelope just as Chrystobel's eyes opened and the surprised girl
inquired sleepily, "Whatever are you doing, Kitty, up at this time of
night?"

"Writing a letter."

"Couldn't you wait until morning?"

"No, dear, I have waited too long already," answered Tabitha, turning
out the light and scrambling back into bed. "I _had_ to tell him how
good everyone is to me, and how good he is, too."

CHAPTER XIX

A STRIKE!

The weeks vanished all too quickly to suit the black-eyed maid from the
desert, and she often found herself wondering where the time went to,
for before she realized it, winter had slipped away and spring was
nearly gone. Now May was half