"Good plan, Margery?" cried Mr. Dean. "Solomon himself could have thought of no wiser. I'll try it, and you will carry Miss Isabel the letter." He took her face in his hands and kissed her hair. "You dear little soul," he said, "I think that you will grow up a second Miss Isabel."
And Margery felt that in all her life she could never again have such praise as this.
"Will you write it soon?" she asked, putting on her hat, and pulling its elastic from the ribbon on the end of her braid.
"You'll find the letter in to-morrow morning's mail," replied Mr. Dean. "I shall be in more of a hurry about it than you are."
"And if you and Miss Isabel were friends you wouldn't go away, would you?" asked Margery wistfully, turning back in the doorway.
"In that case I promise to stay—oh, no one knows how long," said Mr. Dean; and Margery ran down the walk with hope and joy speeding her steps.
She found Tommy Traddles watching for her return, for he was devoted to his little mistress, and sat at the door on the lookout, and crying for her when she was out, which was proof that she made life pleasant for him when she was at home, for if any animal appreciates being treated with attention it is the cat. He arose, welcoming her with loud mews, alternating with the softest murmurs, and jumping up on a table, where he could rub his head against her cheek, and give her hands sundry pats with his white paws. Then he ran away and hid behind the door, solely for the pleasure of jumping out at her, and then waited for her to hide, which she did behind the sofa, and when she cried "Coop!" Tommy Traddles came creeping softly to look for her, and when he found her, sprang up on the sofa, and gave her a pat, instantly running away to hide himself, as if he said, "Now you're it; come find me." When hide-and-seek grew tiresome, Tommy Traddles went to get the stick which was his favorite plaything, and brought it to Margery in his teeth, laying it at her feet, and rubbing his head against her, and making the most coaxing murmurs to induce her to whisk it about for him to run after. Margery never could resist his pleadings, and cat and child had a delightful frolic until both curled up on the big sofa, and fell into a long summer noonday sleep.
The afternoon seemed interminable to Margery, so full of impatience was she for the hour when her plan should be carried out. Jack, Trix, and Amy came over for three-cornered puss-in-the-corner and old-man-among-your-castle after tea, which helped her through the few hours that lay between then and bed-time.
When her friends had gone Margery slipped down into the orchard, through the wet grass, regardless of low shoes and damp ankles. She opened the drop-box—it was her turn to be postmistress—and thrust her hand down to the bottom. One letter was there, a big, thick one. She took it out; yes, she was right. Even by the starlight she recognized Mr. Dean's fine, clear hand. While they were playing he had come in the orchard gate and posted it.
She ran with it to the house, but she knew before she held it under the gaslight that she should find it addressed to Lady Alma Cara, Blissylvania, New York.