Dear Mr. Philanthropist,
Your check for my family came yesterday. Thank you so much! I cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you should have seen the girl's face! She was so surprised and happy and relieved that she looked almost young; and she's only twenty-four. Isn't it pitiful?
Anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming together. She has steady work ahead for two months—some one's getting married, and there's a trousseau to make.
"Thank the good Lord!" cried the mother, when she grasped the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars.
"It wasn't the good Lord at all," said I, "it was Daddy-Long-Legs." (Mr. Smith, I called you.)
"But it was the good Lord who put it in his mind," said she.
"Not at all! I put it in his mind myself," said I.
But anyway, Daddy, I trust the good Lord will reward you suitably. You deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory.