Your Obedient Servant,
Philipse Chidly Brook.
Of New Windsor, N. Y., November Twenty-third, Eighteen hundred and eighty-one.
To Miss Beatrice Beckwith.
“My obedient servant! My blessed old Prince of Givers! That’s what he should have signed. Seventy-five cents each, Motherkin mine! All lavished on your troublesome girl!”
Mrs. Beckwith did not immediately reply. She took the note from Bonny’s hand and gazed at it musingly, as if trying to clear some confusion of memory. “I have heard that name before—somewhere—besides in history. Let me think!”
“I hope you will hear it again—‘somewhere’! Here comes my ‘Humpty-Dumpty’! I was wishing he could enjoy this.”
“Hello! Bon! What the dickens is that?”
“Hello! Bob! It’s chrysanthemums, not dickens!”
“Whose is it?”
“Mine!”