A DISTURBING LETTER
Then the days came when Patty could see anybody and everybody who called upon her. When she could be downstairs in the library or the big cheery living-room, and, as she expressed it, be “folks” once more.
Still flowers were sent to her, still candies and fruit and dainty delicacies arrived in boxes and baskets, and friends sent books, pictures, and letters. Her mail was voluminous, so much so that Nurse Adams who still tarried, was pressed into service as amanuensis and general secretary.
The men had begun to be allowed to call, and Patty saw Cameron and Channing, who happened to call first.
“My, but it’s good to gaze on your haughty beauty again!” said Chick; “I’ve missed you more than tongue can tell!”
“Me too,” said Kit. “I wanted to telephone, but they wouldn’t let me. Said I was too near and dear to be heard without being seen,—like the children, or whoever it is.”
“I wish you had,” and Patty laughed. “I was longing to babble over a telephone, as we used to do, Kit.”
“Yes, in the early days of our courtship, when we were twenty-one!”
“Speak for yourself, John! I’ll leave it to Chick,—do I look twenty-one!”
“I should say not! You look sweet sixteen, or thereabouts.”