ss Dorothy, do you suppose my father will
ever come home?"

"I don't know why he shouldn't."

"I do; it is because grandpa will not ask him to. I think grandma
would like to, but grandpa won't let her; that is what I think, and
I believe Mrs. Hunt thinks so, too."

Miss Dorothy was silent for a moment, then she said: "Perhaps we'd
better not talk about it, dear, for I don't know the circumstances,
and I might not judge correctly, but if it is right that he should
come, I think your writing to him will be the surest way of bringing
it about the sooner. Shall we write the letter this afternoon?"

"Oh, please."

"Then come to my room in about an hour and we'll try it."

Marian was promptly on hand when the hour arrived, and seated
herself in a great twitter before the machine. She began bravely
enough: "My dear father," and then she paused, but slowly went on
till she had completed half a page of typewritten words. Miss
Dorothy did not offer any suggestions, but sat at the other side of
the room before her writing-table. At the pause in the clicking of
the typewriter she looked up. "Well," she said, "you haven't
finished yet, have you?"

"I don't know," responded Marian doubtfully. "Would you mind looking
at what I have done?"

Miss Dorothy came over and read the few stiff lines:

"My dear father: I have learned to write upon the typewriter which
belongs to my teacher. I hope you are well. I am well and so are the
rest of the family. We have very pleasant warm weather at present. I
hope you have the same in Berlin. I thought you might be pleased to
receive a letter from me, although it is not the first of the year.
I go to school now. There are twenty pupils in our room. They are
all little girls."

"Oh, dear, dear," exclaimed Miss Dorothy, "is that the way you feel
when you are writing? Why, you are talking to your father,
remember. Just listen to the way I write to mine." She read from the
sheet she held in her hand:

"Dear old daddy: Isn't this gorgeous weather? I wish you and I were
off for a real old time tramp this afternoon. How we would talk and
turn our hearts inside out to each other. I can see you with your
eyes twinkling under that disreputable old hat of yours, and I can
feel your polite hand under my independent elbow when there is a
stream to jump or a wall to climb, the dear hand that I never need
for that sort of help, but which you pretend I do because I am your
girl still, if I am big eno