augh
about the babies?"

Mrs. Flynt, when this story was repeated to her (she had not been
invited in to hear the letter), remarked that she had always felt that
Molly Wood must be a little vulgar, ever since she began to go about
giving music lessons like any ordinary German.

But Mrs. Wood was considerably relieved when the next letter arrived. It
contained nothing horrible about barbecues or babies. It mentioned the
great beauty of the weather, and how well and strong the fine air was
making the writer feel. And it asked that books might be sent, many
books of all sorts, novels, poetry, all the good old books and any good
new ones that could be spared. Cheap editions, of course.

"Indeed she shall have them!" said Mrs. Wood. "How her mind must be
starving in that dreadful place!" The letter was not a long one, and,
besides the books, spoke of little else except the fine weather and
the chances for outdoor exercise that this gave. "You have no idea,"
it said, "how delightful it is to ride, especially on a spirited horse,
which I can do now quite well."

"How nice that is!" said Mrs. Wood, putting down the letter. "I hope the
horse is not too spirited."

"Who does she go riding with?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"She doesn't say, Sarah. Why?"

"Nothing. She has a queer way of not mentioning things, now and then."

"Sarah!" exclaimed Mrs. Wood, reproachfully. "Oh, well, mother, you
know just as well as I do that she can be very independent and
unconventional."

"Yes; but not in that way. She wouldn't ride with poor Sam Bannett, and
after all he is a suitable person."

Nevertheless, in her next letter, Mrs. Wood cautioned her daughter about
trusting herself with any one of whom Mrs. Balaam did not thoroughly
approve. The good lady could never grasp that Mrs. Balaam lived a long
day's journey from Bear Creek, and that Molly saw her about once every
three months. "We have sent your books," the mother wrote; "everybody
has contributed from their store,--Shakespeare, Tennyson, Browning,
Longfellow; and a number of novels by Scott, Thackeray, George Eliot,
Hawthorne, and lesser writers; some volumes of Emerson; and Jane Austen
complete, because you admire her so particularly."

This consignment of literature reached Bear Creek about a week before
Christmas time.

By New Year's Day, the Virginian had begun his education.

"Well, I have managed to get through 'em," he said, as he entered
Molly's cabin in February. And he