“‘Dear Fellow Vigilantes:

“‘I’ve been trying desperately to write you for weeks and weeks, but you’ve no idea what the cares of a household are, especially when you have a child around.’”

“‘But before I tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards, I must say that the summer is being even more wonderful than Dad and I ever dreamed. I never got so well-acquainted with my own father in all my life, and he’s been a perfect darling to devote days and days to me. The bungalow is more heavenly than ever. It’s positively buried in roses and heliotrope, and you’d never know it had a chimney. You’d think that a huge geranium was growing right out of the roof. The front porch looks out upon the sea. Oh, it’s such a dark, deep, sparkly blue! And 149 when the sky is blue, too, and the sand is golden, and the white gulls skim next the water—nothing could be more beautiful in all the world! I think of you a hundred times a day, and wish that you were here. So does Dad. I’ve told him all about the Vigilantes, and he’s so interested. He says he’s thankful every day that I have such fine friends at St. Helen’s. In fact, I just know he’s more pleased with me than ever before. I think he sees there’s hope ahead, and it’s a very comforting assurance.

“‘Now I must tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards. I know you’re consumed with curiosity. If you could see her, you’d be consumed with envy. She is seven years old and all pink and white and blue and gold. Her cheeks are just the color of wild roses, and her eyes deep blue—almost like the water—and her hair golden brown with lights in it. I dress her in pink or blue or white all the time. One day two weeks ago Dad and I went to Los Angeles to buy clothes for her. I don’t believe I ever had quite such a good time in all my life. ’Twas 150 just like shopping for one’s very own child. I put my hair up high for the occasion, and endeavored to look matronly, but I guess I failed, for when I saw a ravishing pink dress and said, “I guess it’s too small for my little girl,” the stupid clerk laughed in my face.

“‘We bought the sweetest things you ever saw! Hair-ribbons and adorable shoes and socks striped like sticks of candy and little fairy night-dresses all trimmed in lace. Then Dad bought some toys. I let him do that. He bought a doll and books and a cart and horses, for we want Virginia to be a trifle boyish, too, you see. While he was doing it, his eyes just beamed and beamed. He said he felt just as he did when I was little and he bought toys for me. When we reached home and showed the things to Virginia Winthrop Richards, I thought she’d die of happiness. Really, I didn’t know but that we’d lose her after all!

“‘But here I am dressing my child for you, and you don’t even know who she is! She wasn’t anybody but Minnie and No. 31 until three weeks 151 ago. I’ve always thought it would be a heavy cross enough to be named Minnie anyway, even though you had a respectable surname, but to be Minnie without any surname at all, and No. 31 in addition, seem to me the depths of misery. We found her in the Home for Friendless Children, and I’ll always believe that an angel led us there! Dad and I went to the city three weeks ago this very Sunday and walked by the Home. We didn’t even know ’twas there—just stumbled upon it while we were roaming around in search of adventure. Poor little 31 was sitting under a tree on the lawn holding a shingle and singing to it. I’ll never forget how she looked. Her curls were braided up tight, and tied with a shoe-string, and she was dressed in a hideous blue-checked thing, but even those drawbacks couldn’t spoil her. Dad and I just stopped and stared, and then we walked up the steps and in at the door.

“‘“Whose child is that out there on the lawn?” Dad asked the matron who greeted us at the office entrance.

“‘She was a tall, stern-looking person in a 152 shirtwaist and a high, starched collar. You just couldn’t imagine her holding a baby, or one cuddling up against her neck. She said No. 31 was nobody’s child. She had been left in an old basket on the steps six years ago. You see, she isn’t one of those children you read about with beautifully embroidered clothes and gold lockets and one thousand dollars in bills under her pillow. She didn’t have any name or notes or requests for whoever took her to call at the bank for a fortune when she was twenty-one. She was just wrapped in an old blanket and left there. But Dad and I don’t care!

“‘When the matron saw that we were interested, she asked if we didn’t want to borrow No. 31 for a few days. She said they sometimes lent children for two weeks or so. When she said it, she sounded just as though a child were a typewriter or a vacuum cleaner, sent on ten days’ free trial. I looked at Dad and Dad looked at me, and then he said, “We’ll take her!” It didn’t take long for the matron to do up her few clothes and to get her ready. She was so glad to make 153 the loan that she hurried. Little No. 31 was so surprised that she didn’t know whether to be happy or not. Perhaps she didn’t understand what it was to be really happy, but she knows now! She’s positively radiant!

“‘I can’t explain how it seemed when we brought her home. Somehow ’twas as though we’d just begun to be a real family. She snuggled between Dad and me on the front seat of the car, and kept looking from one to the other of us. I think it was her name that first gave us the idea of keeping her. We couldn’t call that adorable child No. 31, and we wouldn’t call her Minnie. Of course we couldn’t name a borrowed child, and so after I’d given her a bath, and we’d seen how truly sweet and adorable she was, we decided that at all events she should never, never go back to that Home, which is a satire on the word. At first Dad thought he knew of a fine home for her with some friends of his who haven’t any children, but after the ten days’ free trial were over we knew we just couldn’t give her up. Best of all, Mrs. Shute, the housekeeper, 154 who’s been with us all summer, loves her to death, and she’s promised to stay right on with Dad, and keep house for him next winter in Los Angeles. So you see Dad has a home and another child, and he’s the happiest man in California.

“‘He let me do the naming, and, of course, I consulted my child. I couldn’t think of anything lovelier than to name her for the two founders of the Vigilantes, and after I’d told her all about you she was pleased as pleased could be. I let her choose between Priscilla Hunter Richards and Virginia Winthrop Richards, and she took Virginia and named her new doll Priscilla. I wish I could have named her for you and Mary, Vivian, dear, but Dad thought two names were enough.

“‘We’re the very happiest family you ever saw. Virginia fits in better every day. She’s learning such sweet manners—I tell Dad it just shows she must be sweet inside! She’s learning to read and to write, too. We have a lesson every morning after breakfast. The other day I bought the pattern of a little dress, and Mrs. Shute helped 155 me cut it out and make it. I never felt so proud in all my life. I’m obliged to be more vigilant than ever, because Virginia does and says everything that I do. The other day I said I should certainly die if I didn’t get a letter from some of you, and she was quite frightened. So I guess I’ll have to be more moderate in speech after this.

“‘There’s one thing more I must tell you before I stop. I saw Imogene the other day. Dad and Virginia and I were walking by one of the big hotels here, when an automobile came up to the curbing. You can just imagine how surprised I was when Imogene and Mrs. Meredith stepped out. There was a young man with them whom I didn’t like very well. He had a queer way of looking at you, and was over-dressed, I thought. Imogene looked very handsome, and, oh, loads older! I felt a perfect baby beside her! Mrs. Meredith was just the same, only even more elaborately gowned than she used to be when she visited Imogene. Imogene was as surprised as I was, I think, though she didn’t show it. She and 156 her mother shook hands with me, and she introduced her friend. I was so excited I didn’t hear his name at all. She told me she was going to be married at Christmas time, and so wouldn’t be back at St. Helen’s, and Mr. Whoever-he-was laughed and said Imogene had been to school long enough. Dad and I asked them to tea with us, but they said they were just hurrying through and couldn’t come.

“‘When they left us and went into the hotel I had the queerest feeling. ’Twas just as though I had said good-by to Imogene forever—just as though she’d gone away into a different world. And the queerest part of it all was that I didn’t care very much. It seemed years since I had cared for her—years since we had done things together at St. Helen’s. That night after I had put Virginia to bed, and come out on the porch with Dad, a big machine flew by our house. I heard some one laugh, and knew it was Imogene. She hadn’t been hurrying through; she just hadn’t cared to come. I suppose it ought to have hurt me, but it didn’t. I was glad she’d stopped caring, too, 157 the way I had. Then, at least, neither of us would be hurt. The only thing I’m sorry about is that Imogene has gone into that kind of a world. I don’t believe it can give the best kind of happiness, do you?

“‘It’s nearly church time, and I must hurry. We’re all going together. It’s Virginia’s very first service, except for those at the Home, and I do hope she’ll be good. I’ve been instructing her for days—telling her just what to do and what not to do. I’m afraid I’ll send out many thoughts in your direction, but Miss Wallace says they’re prayers anyway—that is, the kind I’d send to you, so I guess it will be all right. There’s Virginia calling now.

“‘P.S. After service. She was angelic! When she knelt and closed her eyes, she looked like one of Raphael’s cherubs. Dad wiped his eyes—I saw him—and I could have cried for happiness. The sermon was on “Vigilance”—wasn’t that strange? The minister spoke about watching 158 for opportunities to serve, for in so doing, he said, we served ourselves most of all. Dad looked at me then and smiled, and we both looked at Virginia, our opportunity. She was finding A’s in the prayer-book.

“‘This is a selfish letter—all about me—but I knew you’d want to know about your namesake. Write me right away. We’ll be watching every mail.