them so smoothly. By the way, I hardly think I shall have any need of my
wedding dress while I am here, so you may as well put it away at home
until I come back. This place seems to be just a mining town, with very
few people of our class, and those all connected with the railroad. Of
course, I may be mistaken, but from my first impressions I doubt if I'll
ever want to have much to do with anybody that I've seen. It doesn't
make a bit of difference, of course, because I shan't be lonesome a
minute with the house to look after and Oliver's clothes to attend to;
and, besides, I don't think a married woman ought to make many new
friends. Her husband ought to be enough for her. Mrs. Payson, the
manager's wife, was here to welcome me, but I hope I shan't see very
much of her, because she isn't just exactly what I should call ladylike.
Of course I wouldn't breathe this to any other living soul, but I
thought her entirely too free and easy in her manner, and she dresses in
such very bright colours. Why, she had a red feather in her hat, and she
must have been married at least fifteen years. Oliver says he doesn't
believe she's a day under forty-five. He says he likes her well enough
and thinks she's a good sort, but he is awfully glad that I'm not that
kind of woman. I feel sorry for her husband, for I'm sure no man wants
his wife to make herself conspicuous, and they say she even makes
speeches when she is in the North. Maybe she isn't to blame, because she
was brought up that way, but I am going to see just as little of her as
I can.

And now I must tell you about our house, for I know you are dying to
hear how we are fixed. It's the tiniest one you ever imagined, with a
front yard the size of a pocket handkerchief, and it is painted the most
perfectly hideous shade of yellow--the shade father always calls
bilious. I can't understand why they made it so ugly, but, then, the
whole town is just as ugly as our house is. The people here don't seem
to have the least bit of taste. All the porches have dreadful brown
ornaments along the top of them, and they look exactly as if they were
made out of gingerbread. There are very few gardens, and nobody takes
any care of these. I suppose one reason is that it is almost impossible
to get servants for love or money. There are hardly any darkies here,
they say, and the few they have are perfectly worthless. Mrs.
Midden--the woman who opened my house for me--hasn't been able to get me
a co