"I'll tell you, True—we'll build things. We'll build hospitals and asylums and libraries, and first of all we'll build a great place where those poor men who now get a cup of coffee and a loaf of bread can get a good warm meal and have a bed to sleep in afterward. And we'll build one like it for poor women, too. And then, by and by, we'll build a great, beautiful place where artists and writers, when they get old, can live in ease and comfort, and not have anything to pay unless they are able. Not in the way of charity, I mean, but as the just reward that wealth owes to those who have given their years and strength to make the world better and happier. Only, wealth never understands and realizes its debt. But we will, True, because we know, and Van and Perny will help, and Barry, too. And then, when we have grown old, perhaps we will go there to stay. I am not quite sure about that, but it would be beautiful, I know, for it would be like the houses we are going to have side by side, only on a larger scale; and then, it would be in the country, where there are green fields and fresh air and big trees and clear brooks. We will have beautiful grounds reaching in every direction, like those around Windsor Castle, that I once saw when in England. And everybody will do as they please, and read and write and paint what they like, or sit in the sun and shade, and so drift out of life as gently as the brown leaf falls and floats out to the eternal sea.
"I do not mean to grow poetic, True, but I have always thought about such a place as that, and to me it has seemed just as I have tried to make it appear to you. I know you will understand, too, and your artist fancy will conceive things of which I do not even dream. I never hoped that it could be possible for me to realize this vision, though it has always been very near my heart, and once I even spoke about it to papa. But then, he isn't rich like that, and, besides, our family is large and the boys have to be started in life.
"I was perfectly crazy at first to tell papa about the 'cash for names' plan, and should have done so if you hadn't pledged me to solemn secrecy. Of course, I know how dangerous it would be for any other paper to find it out before you get started, but I know papa would not tell a soul if I told him not to. Only I am glad now that I couldn't, for he is so conservative, you know, in his business methods that I am sure he would have laughed at the plan, and perhaps proved to me in some way that it wasn't practical— I mean, of course, he might have made me believe it wasn't practical, for he knows so much about business and is always so matter-of-fact that I can't argue with him at all. Then I should have been discouraged and uneasy, instead of overflowing with happiness and dreams.
"I am glad you are going to have a good man to solicit advertising right away; and how fine it is that he can get those cash contracts before the paper starts, so you can have ample means right from the first! It all seems so simple and easy now that I wonder people have not done these things long ago. But it is always that way—the simple things are the great ones and the last to be found out. It isn't often, either, that those who discover them get the benefit, and that seems too bad; but it is a comfort to feel that at last genius is to have its just reward, especially when it is the genius of those near and dear to us, and when through it so many others will be benefited and made happy, too.
"I am awfully interested in what you have told me now and then about your picture of the bread line, and the little sketch you made of it on the margin of your last letter is delightful. I hope you will not let it go unfinished, though I know, of course, you are very busy and have so much to think of. But painting will be a rest to you, sometimes, and a change; and then, I like to think of you at your work, too. Besides, it must be completed when I come, you know, and that will be—well, no; I'm not quite ready to fix the exact date yet, because, you see, you will have so much to do for a while, even after the paper is started, that I think we would better wait until it is fairly under way before you try to leave, even if that should not be much before the holidays.
"We can wait and see, and when the time comes I shall be ready, for papa doesn't believe in grand weddings, nor I, either, and I shall have very little preparation to make. Some day, when the 'second round of the third issue' is off, and the 'first round of the fourth issue' is started, when the subscriptions are whirling in like snowflakes through which you are gliding smoothly and well to fortune, then you may write to me, True, that you are coming, and I will be ready. I know that June is the month for weddings, but it is always June in the heart where love is, and, besides, New York is at its best in winter and spring, and when summer really does come we can go where our fancy takes us.
"True, when you went away, and we said to each other that we would wait until you had made a place for yourself in the world,—until you had 'arrived,' as you called it,—the time of waiting seemed long. That was three years ago, but, after all, they have been swift, sweet years, even though we have not seen each other often. For little by little and step by step you did 'arrive,' until we both knew you had the solid ground of success under your feet. The joy of battle made the days go quickly to you, while the joy of watching you has been sweet to me. So you will not be impatient now, for this new triumph which will come still more quickly will make the weeks go even faster, and while it is not my best ambition for you, and only a means to an end, I still rejoice with you and am proud of you in it all. Good-by, True.
"With all my love,
"Dorothy.
"P.S. Papa just came in with the little roll from you containing proofs of the title and department headings. They are beautiful. He noticed all the pages on my desk covered with figures, and asked me if I were estimating the cost of a new Easter bonnet!