The Professor (Mr. Mifflin, I mean) has gone back to Brooklyn to
work on his book. I'm sorry you and he had to mix it up on the high
road like a couple of hooligans. He's a nice little man and you'd
like him if you got to know him.

I'm spending Sunday in Bath: to-morrow I'm going on toward Hastings.
I've sold five dollars' worth of books this morning even if it is
Sunday.

Your affte sister
HELEN McGiLL.

P.S. Don't forget to clean the separator after using it, or it'll
get in a fearful state.


After writing to Andrew I thought I would send a message to the
Professor. I had already written him a long letter in my mind, but
somehow when I began putting it on paper a sort of awkwardness came
over me. I didn't know just how to begin. I thought how much more
fun it would be if he were there himself and I could listen to him
talk. And then, while I was writing the first few sentences, some
of the drummers came back into the room.

"Thought you'd like to see a Sunday paper," said one of them.

I picked up the newspaper with a word of thanks and ran an eye over
the headlines. The ugly black letters stood up before me, and my
heart gave a great contraction. I felt my fingertips turn cold.