just
as much married as what he ever was, and if he had never been
married atoll, it wouldn't of made any difference as far as I feel
about it. Now Nelie, you are old enough to take care of yourself,
but I hope if that fellow ever comes around you again, you'll box
his ears and be done with him. I know hes got a smooth tongue, and
he can make you laugh in spite of yourselfe, but don't you have
anything to do with him.

"MOTHER.

"P. S. I have been talken it over with Mrs. Burton, and she thinks
just the way I do aboute it. She thinks you are good enough for the
best, and you no need to throw yourself away on such a perfect
little scamp. In haste. How is that cellebrated picture that you
are painting with Mr. Ludlow getting along?"

* * * * *

Cornelia got this letter from the postman at Mrs. Montgomery's door,
when she opened it to go out in the morning, and she read it on her way
to the Synthesis. It seemed to make the air reel around her, and step
by step she felt as if she should fall. A wild anger swelled her heart,
and left no room there for shame even. She wondered what abominable
lies that little wretch had told; but they must have been impudent
indeed to overcome her mother's life-long reluctance from writing and
her well-grounded fears of spelling, so far as to make her send a
letter out of the usual course. But when her first fury passed, and she
began to grow weak in the revulsion, she felt only her helplessness in
the presence of such audacity, and a fear that nothing could save her
from him. If he could make her so far forget herself as to tolerate
him, to listen to his stories, to laugh at his jokes, and show him that
she enjoyed his company, after all she knew of him, then he could make
her marry him, if he tried.

The logic was perfect, and it seemed but another link in the
infrangible chain of events, when she found another letter waiting for
her at the office of the Synthesis. It bore the postmark of Lakeland,
of the same date as her mother's, and in the corner of the envelope the
business card of Gates & Clarkson, Dealers in Art Goods; J. B.
Dickerson, in a line of fine print at the top was modestly "with" them.

The address, "Dear friend," was written over something else which had
been rubbed out, but beyond this the letter ran fluently and
uninterruptedly along in a hand which had a business-like dire