ng like him. We are strangely influenced in
this world by those whom we admire most. Harriet and I know a little old
maid--I have written about her elsewhere--who has thought so much about
the Carpenter of Nazareth that she has come to be wonderfully like Him.

It would be impossible for any one to understand Anthy, or, indeed, the
life of the _Star_, or Nort, without knowing of the deep inner forces
which were influencing her. I know now why she maintained through all
the earlier days, those trying days, the front of quiet courage.

And so I come to the letter open here on my desk. It is the one that
Anthy wrote on the night that Nort went home with her for the first
time. It is not a long letter, and was evidently written hastily at the
little table I have so often seen, at which I once sat quietly for a
long time, where one may easily glance up at the portrait over the
mantel. It is the first letter in which she ever referred at any great
length to Nort. And this is the letter:

DEAR MR. LINCOLN: Well, we have had a wonderful day! We
finished the setting of the poetry, of which I told you,
early in the afternoon, but the last paper was not folded
until after nine o'clock this evening.

I am uncertain whether we have done wisely or not. My father
would never have dreamed of anything so _different_, and Ed
Smith will probably be horrified. We may have been too
easily carried away by our irrepressible Vagabond, but if I
had the decision to make again, I should do exactly what I
have done. It's a sort of Declaration of Independence!

Our Vagabond came home with me this evening. Probably I
should not have let him, but there's no harm done: he didn't
know, most of the time, whether I was with him or he was
alone. What a dreamer he is, anyway! We started talking
about the _Star_, but no one heavenly body will long satisfy
him. He soon soared away in the blue firmament, touched
lightly upon a constellation or two, and was getting ready
to settle the problems of the universe--when we arrived at
the gate. I had some trouble to get him down to solid earth
again. _He is no tramp printer_, of that I am certain. He
has completely won over Uncle Newt, and his way with Fergus
passeth understanding. Fergus trots around like a collie
dog, rather cross, but faithful. David looks at him with
that contemplative, h