I started into the house, then I stopped. I remembered what Bess had said about not wanting folks to tease her about it. "Say," I said, "I wish you'd see that Dad or anybody doesn't start to teasing Bess about it when she gets back. There isn't any reason why it should make any difference between her and me; but she doesn't want to have it rubbed in, any more than I do," and I stumped off to my room.
On the table I found a letter from Bess. I had had only two or three short notes from her since the one from Chicago. The notes had come from Indianapolis and Washington; but here was a fine, long, type-written one, and it was from Chicago again;—that meant that she would soon be home. I keeled over into my Morris chair and opened it. Here it is:—
"I'm coming home next week. That's to put you in a good humor to begin with.
"Next come adventures.
"I went from here to Indianapolis, and had my type-writer shipped by express; and when I unpacked it there, it was smashed to—well, it was the worst smashed up machine you ever saw. It wasn't any use for me to get out my manicure
