"I hope you've thanked your Uncle Peter properly!" he said.
"For what?" said our Uncle Peter.
Our Father jingled the twenty nickles in his hand. "For all favors," he said.
Our Uncle Peter said he was perfectly repaid. He made a frown at my Father.
When bed-time came I climbed up into my Mother's lap and told her all about it,—the house,—the cocoa,—the toy Ferris Wheel,—the blue daisies on the stair carpet,—the pigeon that lit on my window-sill in the morning,—the splashy way Tiger Lily lapped his milk.
"It will be interesting," said my Mother, "to see what we hear from Tiger Lily as Time goes on."
Time went on pretty quickly. Pansies happened and yellow poppies and ducks and two kittens and August.
It wasn't till almost Autumn that we ever heard from Tiger Lily or the little boy again.
When the letter came it was from the little boy. But it was the Lady who wrote it.
We thought her writing would be all black and sorrowful. But it was violet-colored instead, with all the ends of her letters quirked up with surprise like her face, only prancier.