I
hadn't seen him since forty-five, hadn't written to him since fifty, but
he was the only man living I knew who could help me. So I forthwith
indited a note to Reuben Walker, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, reminding him of
our former intimacy, regretting that we had allowed ourselves to drift
apart, and asking if he knew of a quiet country home where I might spend
the summer. I reasoned that it was a country lawyer's business to know
everybody in his county, and I hoped that Reuben remembered me well
enough to refer me only to the kind with whom I would care to affiliate.
I did not write letters often, my correspondence averaging perhaps a
half dozen epistles a year, and so I signed my name to this one before
reading it over. Then I recollected one of the earliest injunctions of
my father: "Be very careful what you sign your name to," so I
deliberately reread the missive before me. It was all right; I had said
all that was necessary, but just as I was bending the sheet to fold it
I stopped, spread it out again, and, taking up my quill, wrote as a
postscript:

"I much prefer a home where there are _no_ young ladies."

V

In due time an answer came. It was with considerable anxiety that I
broke the seal, but there was a smile upon my face when I finished
reading the short, friendly letter which he had sent me. He knew a place
that would suit me exactly. Mr. and Mrs. Grundy were an elderly couple
who lived about eight miles north of Springfield. They belonged to the
aristocracy of the county, and lived in a two-story brick house on a
magnificent farm. They were warm friends of Reuben's, and he felt no
hesitancy in declaring that they would board me throughout the summer
and fall. So positive was he of this fact that he wrote me to come
whenever I pleased, and he would have everything arranged by the time I
got there. He added a postscript, in answer to mine, stating that his
friends were childless, and he did not think I would be bothered by any
young ladies.

My elation at the success of my plans thus far was so apparent that it
was openly remarked upon at the tea-table that evening. And so I told
them all then and there of the change I was about to make. Of course
there was a chorus of regrets that I was to leave, which I could not
believe genuine, since I was so unsociable. But meeting Mrs. Moss in the
hall as I started to my room, I explained to her that my health demanded
an immediate change of air, and that fo