THE latter part of the week Ethel received a letter from Billy, saying that he and Jack would be delighted to come up.

Billy’s letter was characteristic. It ran:

“My Dear Mrs. Vernon:

“You are a kind, good lady. Jack agrees with me in this. You have saved our lives. It has been a long time since we sold any pictures, and we have forgotten the address of our bank, so we were not thinking of going to any summer resort this summer, but your invitation could not be refused without insulting you.

“It is not entirely as if we were strangers, however, because we know Tom (oh, don’t we know him) and we know your husband. Tom has brought him to the Olla Podrida Club more than once and has made him smoke the club cigars which we thought unkind. So we have a certain sympathy with your husband and are prepared to like him better the more we know him.

“Will you please ask Tom to tell us what train to take, and also to do any other things that are necessary. He will understand.

“Please give my regards to Miss Paxton. You mentioned her as part of your ‘party,’ and she must be a large part, unless she has changed. I used to know her before I came to New York, when she was a little girl (three years ago).

“Jack wants me to tell you that whatever I think of you he thinks also, and that you do not know how much you have done for ART IN AMERICA by making it possible for us to set down on canvas the beauties of your state. (I’m not sure whether that should be a capital S or not.)

“Yours cordially,

“William Edson.”

When we showed the letter to Tom and asked him what Mr. Edson meant by saying, “ask Tom to do any other things that are necessary,” he burst into a roar of laughter.

“That means in plain English that the dear boys are stone broke, and that they will need money before they can buy their tickets. I will telegraph them ten dollars.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Benedict, “that those young men are going to borrow the money to come up here?”

“Yes, why not?” said Tom with just a suspicion of heat in his tone.

“Why, nothing,” said Benedict, “only I’d stay in the city all summer before I’d borrow money to go away. I’d be too independent.”

“Independent, poppycock,” said Tom. “We’re told to let independence be our boast, but we’re also told that it’s wrong to boast. So it’s wrong to boast of independence. No man can be independent in this world. He relies on one man to bring him into the world and on another to bury him, and all the time he’s here he’s relying on one person or another. The only thing is for him to accept help and be willing to help. That’s all,” Tom laughed. “Sermon’s over. Collection will now be taken up to bring those two babes to the place where they can make bread for next winter. No, sir. You, Phil, can not contribute. This hard-as-nails Benedict, who thinks he’s made his own way, and who has been helped all along by our free institutions, will chip in, and so will old Cr?sus when he comes back from his horseback ride with Cherry.” He paused. “Sibthorp ought to learn to ride.”

Benedict’s hand went down into his pocket and brought out a bill.

“Now, see here,” said Tom. “I don’t want you to have the idea that you’re doing a charitable act, for you’re not. Those boys are going to give us a couple of sketches before they go back, and we’ll sell them for more than ten dollars and refund pro rata. Will that satisfy your sordid business soul?”

Benedict drew off and gave Tom a friendly punch. They were always insulting each other, having been friends for years, and both of them members of the Olla Podrida Club, which, by the way, is an association of artists and men interested in art. Benedict buys a picture once in a while and, according to Tom, when he relies on the advice of an artist friend, he gets a good one. When he relies on his own judgment he gets something that provides no end of amusement to all the artists except the one who painted the picture.

“I want none of your impudence, Tom,” said he, and then Minerva interrupted.

It seems as if Minerva were always interrupting and generally with a shriek.

“Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! there’s a big worm in the kitchen!” cried she as she came running out of the sitting room to where we were standing.

“Worms can’t hurt you, Minerva,” said Tom. “Go get a bird and see him catch the worm.”

“Oh, my! but this worm would eat any bird I ever saw. It’s that long.”

She showed how long it was, and Tom said,

“Why, it must be a snake.”

We men ran into the kitchen, and there, sure enough, was a little green snake about a foot long and frightened in every inch.

Tom picked up the mop, and carefully aiming at the little creature, he brought it down about three feet away from it. For the snake had eluded him.

Minerva’s curiosity was greater than her fear, and she came to the door of the kitchen to watch us.

Benedict picked up a broom and made a swipe at the snake that upset a pitcher of milk, but missed the s............