he house, feeling as if Jack Frost were nipping
her as she ran, but with glowing cheeks and spirits brightened by the
splendid air.

Just before sunset papa came rowing back. He was almost stiff with
cold, but when once he had thawed out in the warm kitchen, he seemed
none the worse for that. It was quite exciting to hear from the
village after such a long silence. Papa had seen Mrs. Downs and Mr.
Downs and the children. Benny had had the mumps, but he was almost
well again. Mrs. Downs sent her love to Eyebright, and a mince pie
pinned up in a towel. This was very nice, but when Eyebright unpinned
the towel and saw the pie, she gave a scream of dismay.

"Why, papa, it's all hard," she said, "and it's just like ice. Touch
it, papa; did you ever feel any thing so cold?"

In fact, the pie was frozen hard, and had to be thawed for a long time
in the oven before it was fit to eat. While this process was going on,
papa produced a little parcel from his pocket. It was a Christmas
present,--a pretty blue neck-tie. Eyebright was delighted, and showed
her gratitude by kissing papa at least a dozen times, and dancing
about the kitchen.

"Oh, and here's a letter for you, too," he said.

"A letter for me. How queer! I never had a letter before, that I
remember. Why, it's from Wealthy! Papa, I wish you'd read it to me. It
looks very hard to make out, Wealthy writes such a funny hand. Don't
you recollect how she used to work over her copy-book, with her nose
almost touching the paper, and how inky she used to get?"

It was the first time they had heard from Wealthy since they left
Tunxet, more than eight months before. Wealthy wrote very few letters,
and those few cost an amount of time, trouble, and ink-spots, which
would have discouraged most people from writing at all.

This was the letter:--

DEAR EYEBRIGHT: I take my pen in hand to tell you that I am
well, and hope you are the same. All the friends here is
well, except Miss Bury. She's down with intermitting fever,
and old Miss Beadles is dead and buried. Whether that's being
well or not I can't say. Some folks think so, and some folks
don't. I haint written before. I aint much of a scribe, as
you know, so I judge you haven't been surprised at not
hearing of me. I might have writ sooner, but along in the
fall my arm was kind of lamed with rheumatism, and when I got
over that, there was Mandy Harmon's weddin' things to
do,--Pe