back.
Perhaps that is what made Coachy look round-shouldered--carrying such a
load of sweet kisses on her back.

Just at this moment Bridget came out, and picked up the door-mat. I have
never known for certain what Bridget did to the door-mat. Maybe it was
taken off somewhere, like a bad child, for a shaking. Anyway, she picked
it up quickly, and went back to the kitchen. And right where the mat had
lain--so near that we could reach out and take it--was a letter; and the
letter was addressed, in big scrawling characters that looked very much
indeed like "hen tracks," to

_Miss Bessie Rathbun_,
_Featherdale._

The little lady's eyes and mouth grew perfectly round; she gave a little
scream, and Coachy, half scared, went hopping down the steps. I opened
the letter, and this is what we found:

"MY DEAR MISTRESS,--You can't guess how sad I am at the thought of
leaving you, even for a few short months; but I do believe my
general health and spirits would be much improved if you would
kindly take me out to the farm to spend the balance of the summer.
I miss the Brahmas, and the Shanghais, and the Plymouth Rocks, and
even the pert little Bantams, more than I can tell. I get very
downhearted somehow, thinking of the merry times they must be
having all together in the fields or on the old barn floor. You
are very, very good to me, and I love you dearly; but oh! _please_
take me back to the farm. I shall be so happy whenever you come
out there to see me, and will thank you as long as I live. Answer
soon.

"With one peck at your sweet lips,

"COACHY.

"P. S.--Please don't ever hug me again as you did on the lawn last
Sunday. I thought I should choke."

Bessie was smiling; still in the same moment she had to put up her hand
and whisk something away from her cheek. I knew what it was--a tear.

"Uncle," she said, putting both hands into her apron pockets, "let's
take Coachy to the farm to-morrow;" and we did.

Early next morning we drove out of town, the dear old hen in Bessie's
arms, and Bessie and I in the phaeton. Bessie talked softly to her
favorite all the way; and when we reached the farm, I have an idea that,
in spite of the request in the postscript, Coachy was hugged as hard as
she ever was hugged in her life. Down the lane we went toward a group of
noisy fowls. The nearer we came to them, the harder was Coachy hugged. I
began to be a