fternoon,--and got the lunch, and cleared that away, she sat down at her table, and began to write about Alec and the dog; and before she knew it she was imagining all kinds of things in connection with it, so that it was true, and yet it wasn't at all, and perfectly ridiculous. She laughed to herself all the time she was writing. She wrote all that afternoon; and when Adelma and I came in the next day, she read it to us. It was quite different from anything she had ever written before, and not a bit like any magazine story we had ever read; but we couldn't stop to think whether it was good or not, for we simply sat there and screamed with laughter, so that Dorothy could hardly go on reading, and had to stop every few minutes until we got quiet again.
Isn't it strange, Cousin Mary, how all the little bits of pieces of life fit together! It fairly makes Adelma and me shiver sometimes, when things that seem most unimportant and commonplace can turn out to be so mysterious!