It was very stiff and cold and dignified, and ran something like this: DEAR MADAM: Dr.Anderson desires me to say that he trusts you are bearing in mind the fact that, according to the decision of the court, his daughter Mary is to come to him on the first day of May.

If you will kindly inform him as to the hour of her expected arrival, he will see that she is properly met at the station.
Then she signed her name, Abigail Jane Anderson.

(She was named for her mother, Grandma Anderson, same as Father wanted them to name me.

Mercy! I'm glad they didn't.

"Mary" is bad enough, but "Abigail Jane"-- !) Well, Mother read the letter aloud, then she began to talk about it--how she felt, and how awful it was to think of giving me up six whole months, and sending her bright little sunny-hearted Marie into that tomb-like place with only an Abigail Jane to flee to for refuge.
And she said that she almost wished Nurse Sarah was back again--that she, at least, was human.
"'And see that she's properly met,' indeed!" went on Mother, with an indignant little choke in her voice.