"Will-yum Farnsworth, if you don't tell your own wife what you mean,
I'll never speak to you again! There!"
"At risk of that awful condition of things, I won't tell you just yet. But you do this. Here's something you can do toward solving the mystery,—and I can't. Find out for sure,—don't ask her, but see for yourself,—if Azalea gets a letter from Horner's Corners addressed in a big, bold Spencerian hand. I remember Uncle Thorpe's handwriting perfectly, and it's unmistakable. I've not seen it since Azalea came."
"Goodness, do you call it a mystery?"
"I do, indeed. You'll find out it's a pretty startling mystery, or I miss my guess."
"Well, Azalea is a handful, I admit, but I think she's good at heart, and she is devoted to my booful little Fleury-floppet! My own Dolly-winkums,—who looks prezackly like her Daddy-winkums!"
"Patty, you'll go to the lunatic asylum some day, if you let yourself talk such gibberish!"
"Listen to him, Baby mine, my flubsy-dubsy,—my pinky-poppy-petal, listen to your dreadful Dads! Isn't he the—"
"The what?" and Farnsworth strode across the room and took his wife and child both into his big bear-like embrace.
"The dearest, sweetest man in the world!" Patty said, laughing but nearly smothered in his arms.
"All right, you're excused," and he let them go.