Chapter XII

"A POST OFFICE LETTER."

The "far-off" feeling rather increased upon Dotty. It seemed to her that she had never before reflected upon the immense distance which lay between her and home. The house might burn up before ever she got back. Prudy might have a lung fever, and mamma the "typo." It was possible for Zip to choke with a bone, and for a thousand other dreadful things to happen. And if Dotty were needed ever so much, she could not reach home without travelling all those miles.

Then, what if one of the conductors should prove to be a "non," and she should never reach home at all, but, instead of that, should be found lying in little pieces under a railroad bridge?

Sister Prudy had never troubled her head with such fancies. The dear God would attend to her, she knew. He cared just as much about her one little self as if she had been the whole United States. But Dotty did not understand how this could be.

"I wish I hadn't come out West at all," thought she. "They're going to take me up to Indi'nap'lis; and there I'll have to stay, p'raps a week; for my father always has such long business! Dear, dear! and I don't know but everybody's dead!"

Just as she had drawn a curtain of gloom over her bright little face, and had buried both her dimples under it, and all her smiles, Uncle Henry came home from his office, looking very roguish.

"Well, little miss, and what do you suppose I've brought you from up town? Put on your thinking-cap, and tell me."

"Bananas? papaws? 'simmons? lemons? Dear me, what is it? Is it to eat or wear? And have you got it in your pocket?"

Uncle Henry, who had had his hand behind him, now held it out with a letter in it—a letter in a white envelope, directed, in clear, elegant writing, to "Miss Alice B. Parlin, care of H.S. Clifford, Esq., Quinn, Indiana."

There could be no mistake about it; the letter was intended for Dotty Dimple, and had travelled all the way by mail. But then that title, Miss, before the name! It was more than probable that the people all along the road had supposed it was intended for a young lady!

DOTTY'S FIRST POST-OFFICE LETTER. Page 162.

When the wonderful thing was given her, her "first post-office letter," she clapped her hands for joy.

"Miss? Miss?" repeated she, as Horace re-read the direction; for she was not learned in the mysteries of writing, and could not read it for herself.

"O, yes. Miss, certainly! If it was to me, it would be Mr."

"Master, you mean," corrected Grace.

"No, Horace, you are not Mr. yet!" said Dotty, confidently; "you've never been married."

The next thing in order was the reading of the letter. Dotty tore it open with a trembling hand. I should like to see another letter that would make a child so happy as that one did! It was written by three different people, and all to the same little girl. Not a line to Uncle Henry or Aunt Maria, or Horace or Grace. All to Dotty's self, as if she were a personage of the first importance.

Mamma began it. How charming to see "My dear little daughter," traced so carefully in printed capitals! Then it was such a satisfaction to be informed, in the sweetest language, that this same "dear little daughter" was sadly missed. Dotty was so glad to be missed!

There was a present waiting for her at home. Mrs. Parlin was not willing to say what it was; but it had been sent by Aunt Madge from the city of New York, and must be something fine.

There were two whole pages of the clear, fair writing, signed at the close, "Your affectionate mother, Mary L. Parlin."

Just as if Dotty didn't know what mother's name was!

Then Susy followed with a short account of Zip, and how he had stuck himself full of burs. (He wasn't choked yet, thought Dotty; and that was a comfort.) Then a longer account of the children's picnic at Deering's Oaks.

Dotty sighed, and felt that fate had been rather cruel in depriving her of that picnic.

"But I have had something better than that," said she, brightening; "I've walked on an Ensmallment, and I have picked pecans."

But the best was to come. It was from Prudy.

"My dear little darling Sister: I want to see you more than tongue can tell. Norah let Susy bake some biscuits last night, because there wasn't anybody at home but mother, and grandma, and Susy, and Norah, and me. But they were as tough as sew leather. Susy forgot the creamor tartar, and soda, and salt. She wasn't to blame.

"I'm so lonesome I can't wait to see my darling sister.

"Now I have some news to tell:—

"Mother is going to be married!

"You will think that is funny; but she is going to be married to the same husband she was before.

"It will be a Crystal Wedding, because it is fifteen years.

"She invites you and father to come home to it; she couldn't have it without father.

"You are going to be the bridesmaid! How queer! Mamma didn't think, the first time she was married, that ever it would be you that would be her bridesmaid!

"From your dear, dear

"Prudy."

"P.S. There will be wedding cake."

"P.S. No. 2. Johnny Eastman is going to be bridegroom, to stand up, if he doesn't do anything naughty before. P.P."

The look of "mouldy melancholy" disappeared from Dotty's face entirely.

"A wedding! A crystal wedding! What can that be? I didn't know my father and mother would ever be married any more. Aunt 'Ria, were you and Uncle Henry ever married any more?"

"This is a sort of make-believe wedding," replied Mrs. Clifford; "that is all. And since you are to be bridesmaid, Dotty, I wonder if I cannot find a pair of white slippers for you. I remember Grace had a pair some years ago, which she has never worn."

THE WHITE SLIPPERS.—Page 167.

The slippers were produced, and fitted perfectly. Dotty danced about, embraced her auntie, made a great many wild speeches, and finally found herself in her uncle's lap, kissing him and laughing aloud.

"I suppose now," said Mr. Clifford, "we cannot keep you much longer and I am sorry, for it is very pleasant to have our little cousin here to talk with us."

"I don't wan't um go 'way, I don't want um go 'way," spoke up little Katie.

"But I must go to meet my papa," returned Dotty, with a business air. "I have to be at home to get ready for the wedding."

It was very pleasant to know people liked her to stay. She ran into the kitchen, and said to Katinka,—

"O, Katinka, my papa and mamma are going to be married again! Do you know I've got to start day after to-morrow?"

"So?" replied Katinka, not very much impressed. "I'm going to a party. I must up stairs go, and make my hairs and shut my dress. Gute Nacht."

"I'm only going to stay one more day; aren't you sorry?" said Dotty to broken-nosed Phebe, who came in from the pantry with a long face.

"Why, I reckoned you was going to-morrow," was Phebe's cool reply, rolling the whites of her eyes to hide a twinkle of fun. She knew Dotty expected her to say, "I am sorry;" but, though she really was sorry, she would not confess it just then, because she was an inveterate tease.

Dotty felt a little chilled. She could not look into the future and see the tomato pincushion Phebe was to give her, with the assurance that "she liked her a heap; she was a right smart child, and not a bit stuck up."

The day ended with Dotty's dear, dear letter under her pillow. She was going to be very happy by and by; but just now she thought she was so homesick that she should never go to sleep. She longed to see Prudy, and hear her say, "O, you darling sister!"

Then that wedding! Those white slippers!

How they did all miss her at home! Such dear friends as she had, and such beautiful things as were going to happen!

"But they are so good to me here! I've behaved so well they love me dearly. If I go home, I can't stay here and have good times. I should be happy if I was at my mother's house and out West too! Every time I'm glad, then there's something else to make me sorry."

So, between a smile and a tear, Dotty Dimple passed into the beautiful land of dreams; and the moon shone on a little face with a frown between the eyes and a dimple dancing in each cheek.

What happened to her on her way home and afterward will be told in the story of Dotty Dimple at Play.