DEAR SISTERS:—The cruelty of one female woman to another is something awful. As a general thing, E. E. Dempster is a good-natured, amiable person, but her conduct on the very day after that heavenly season on the shore was worthy of the Spanish Inquisition. She has lacerated the heart in my bosom, and torn me away from this place like a ruthless highwayman. That is what she has done.

Early in the morning, while I was dreaming sweetly of the sea-shore, that unfeeling female rushed into my room.

"Phoemie," says she, "you can't sleep any longer. We are packing up for the city. Cecilia has been insulted here, and I won't stay another hour in the place."

"What! what is it?" says I. "How could you! He was just giving up metaphor and coming squarely out in the sweetest way."

"You will have no more than time to pack your trunk before the train starts," says she.

"Starts—what for! where?"

"For New York, and after that to Saratoga; Cecilia insists on it, poor, sweet darling."

"For New York?" says I.

"On the way to Saratoga."

"But—but who is going. Is—is—?"

"Why, you and I, Dempster, and that sweet, ill-used child. Would you believe it, that rude boy's father refuses to whip him, and said a girl that could give a black eye with her parasol was—well, I can't find the heart to repeat it. At any rate, she doesn't stay another hour under the same roof with that little fiend."

"But is that all—Oh, tell me is no one else going?" says I feeling as if a ton of lead had been heaped on me.

"Dear me. There is no one else to care for the poor child. Of course, no one will take it up but us. So make haste."

Out she went, leaving me just heart-broken and ready to give up. How could I go? how could I leave him and "the Branch," as if my soul were fleeing from his?

It was of no use. E. E. was set upon going, and I couldn't help myself.

Well, sisters, two hours after I left that bed we had packed up bag and baggage, given a cart-load of trunks for the express-men to smash or carry, just as they liked, and then took a little run of railroad, and a sail in a steamboat so grand and airy, and no ending, that we began to feel sorry that James Fisk was dead, or that his splendid ghost didn't roam along the steamboat track and keep things ship-shape, as he left them.

Well, in that steamboat we reached New York, warm, restless, and nigh about ready to give out, or take a friendly sunstroke and be peaceably carried away to a cool vault in some shady graveyard.

I mentioned this alternative to Cousin Dempster, but he shook his head and answered that some of us might find ourselves waking up in a more uncomfortable place than the streets of New York; which I thought impossible, but said nothing.

Well, we had a few hours to stay in the city before a boat would be ready to take us to Saratoga Springs—a name that sounded so cool and refreshing, that I longed to get there and breathe again.

Cousin E. E. said, when we went ashore:

"Phoemie," says she, "there are a few hours before us; suppose we go a-shopping? I want ever so many things. Saratoga is a dressy place, and I haven't a thing to wear."

Then, before I could object, says she to Dempster:

"A check, my dear, or if you have the funds on hand."

Dempster gave a sigh that shook his manly bosom through and through, and says he:

"There," drawing a roll of bank bills from his vest pocket, "will that do?"

E. E. unrolled the bills and sorted them out.

"Ten, twenty, fifty, ten, ten, ten, fif— Why, Dempster, what do you mean? How far will a hundred and fifty dollars go? I want to spend more than that on Valenciennes lace for Cecilia's dress. The child must have something to wear."

She spoke in a grieved, half-angry way, that touched Dempster to the heart. He took out his pocket-book, but not another sign of money was in it. Then he felt in three or four pockets with the air of a man who was tormented with doubts of finding anything. At last he stopped looking.

"I haven't another red cent about me, dear. Indeed I haven't."

"Dear me, what am I to do? There is a guipure sacque at Stewart's that I must have."

"Couldn't you get along without it?" says Dempster, with such pathetic earnestness that I really felt sorry for him.

"Get along without it! How can you ask?"

"That Brussels lace thing," faltered Dempster.

"What, that? I have had it six months at least; besides, I saw another just like it at the hotel, and that is enough to disgust one with anything. If people will pattern after me, I can't help it. Then again one gets so tired of the same thing."

"But I have no more money."

"Can't you draw a check?"

"My check-book is at the office."

"Always so when I want anything. Now, Dempster, this is too bad."

"Well," says Dempster, desperately, "get the thing, and tell Stewart to charge it?"

Cousin E. E. turned her face away. It was awful cloudy, and I could see that she was biting her lips. She had an awful long bill at Stewart's already. Then her face lighted up.

"Can't I have them sent C. O. D., by express? You will have time to get plenty of money before then," says she, as soft as silk weed.

"I hate the system," says Dempster; "money in hand is the only way a lady should make purchases. Then she knows what she is about. Everything else leads to extravagance. I hate bills as if they were copperheads; they are things I never will forgive."

I saw that E. E. turned pale, and a red flush came around her eyes as if she were just ready to burst out a-crying.

Dempster thought it was because he had stood out about the money and gave in a trifle.

"For this once," says he, "have the things charged, but bring the bill with you. I must know what I am about in these matters."

"But I mightn't find them all in one place. Hadn't we better make it a C. O. D., just for once?" says she, pleading for her own way as if her mouth were full of humble pie.

"Do as you please for this once," says he, half out of patience, "but remember, I am set against bills and running accounts—pay as you go along, is my motto."

E. E. drew a deep breath, and, putting the money in a little mite of a leather satchel fastened to her side by a belt, took up her parasol and prepared to march off.

Cecilia followed after, surveying her little toadstool of a parasol, and stooping forward as she walked, like an undersized kangaroo.

I only wish E. E., or even Cousin Dempster, could see that child as I see her. But they can't. Where she is concerned, they seem born fools, both of them.

Well, off we went one way, and Dempster the other—he to get the money, and his wife to spend it. I looked on, and wondered how any man living could afford to get married. The whole thing made me down-hearted, and half-ashamed of my relationship with a woman who could worry money out of her husband like that, and not feel how mean she was—could not my cousin see that she was poisoning the soul of her own child by an example which she was just as certain to follow as she was to live.

Well, we got into a carriage and drove up Broadway; but instead of going to Stewart's great marble building, E. E. stopped at some other places, and kept buying and buying till I got tired out, and sat on a round stool by the counter, saying nothing, but thinking a good deal. Each place we left, I heard her say, "Grand Union Hotel, Saratoga: C. O. D.," till I got tired to death of the word.

At one place my cousin and that child had a grand set-to in the store. Cecilia wanted a bright-red silk dress to wear under her lace one; but E. E. liked blue best, and ordered it. Then Cecilia declared she didn't want any dress at all, broke her new parasol striking it against the counter, and ended off by flinging herself down on a stool and drumming her feet against the counter—so mad that she cried till everybody in the store heard her.

Of course E. E. gave in, just to pacify her, while I would have given fifty of the brightest silver dollars ever issued by the U. S. Government, for the happiness of giving her the neatest little trouncing she ever got in her life. But luxuries like these, I can hardly expect just yet. How that cousin of mine can give up a parental prerogative so tempting to the hands I cannot imagine. I really would not put so much pleasure off an hour.