The Knight put spurs to his horse, and dashed away over the hills without ever looking back, and the Princess stood looking over the gate at him till the last sight of his plume below the brow of the hill. The Knight was gone. Many suitors flocked about the Princess. Mighty lords and barons of great wealth were at her feet and attended her every journey. They came and offered themselves and their fortunes again and again, but none of them found favor in her eyes. 'Will the Princess listen to no one?' they began to say among themselves. 'Has she given her heart to some one who is not among us?' No one could say.
A great and mighty physician, young and of wondrous power in his art, telephoned to her every night if he might come down. How his suit prospered no one could tell, but he persevered with great and astonishing diligence. A powerful baron who assisted in regulating the finances of the kingdom and who was a direct descendant of a great prince who was cast into a lion's den, knelt at her feet.
A gay and lively lord who lived in a castle hung with ribbons and streamers and gay devices of all kinds, with other nobles of like character, prostrated themselves before her, but she would listen to none of them.
The Princess rode about in quiet ways in the cool evenings upon a gray palfrey, alone and very quiet, and she seemed to grow silent and thoughtful as time went on and no news came from the western wars, and the Knight came not back again.
To his daughter Margaret
TOLEDO, Ohio, Oct. 1, 1900.
Dear Margaret: I got your very nice, long letter a good many days ago. It didn't come straight to me, but went to a wrong address first. I was very glad indeed to hear from you, and very, very sorry to learn of your getting your finger so badly hurt. I don't think you were to blame at all, as you couldn't know just how that villainous old 'hoss' was going to bite. I do hope that it will heal up nicely and leave your finger strong. I am learning to play the mandolin, and we must get you a guitar, and we will learn a lot of duets together when I come home which will certainly not be later than next summer, and maybe earlier.
I suppose you have started to school again some time ago. I hope you like to go, and don't have to study too hard. When one grows up, a thing they never regret is that they went to school long enough to learn all they could. It makes everything easier for them, and if they like books and study they can always content and amuse themselves that way even if other people are cross and tiresome, and the world doesn't go to suit them. You mustn't think that I've forgotten somebody's birthday. I couldn't find just the thing I wanted to send, but I know where it can be had, and it will reach you in a few days. So, when it comes you'll know it is for a birthday remembrance.
I think you write the prettiest hand of any little girl (or big one, either) I ever knew. The letters you make are as even and regular as printed ones. The next time you write, tell me how far you have to go to school and whether you go alone or not.
I am busy all the time writing for the papers and magazines all over the country, so I don't have a chance to come home, but I'm going to try to come this winter. If I don't I will by summer SURE, and then you'll have somebody to boss and make trot around with you.
Write me a letter whenever you have some time to spare, for I am always glad and anxious to hear from you. Be careful when you are on the streets not to feed shucks to strange dogs, or pat snakes on the head or shake hands with cats you haven't been introduced to, or stroke the noses of electric car horses.
Hoping you are well and your finger is getting all right, I am, with much love, as ever, PAPA.
* * * *
My Dear Margaret: Here it is summertime, and the bees are blooming and the flowers are singing and the birds making honey, and we haven't been fishing yet. Well, there's only one more month till July, and then we'll go, and no mistake. I thought you would write and tell me about the high water around Pittsburg some time ago, and whether it came up to where you live, or not. And I haven't heard a thing about Easter, and about the rabbit's eggs--but I suppose you have learned by this time that eggs grow on egg plants and are not laid by rabbits.
I would like very much to hear from you oftener, it has been more than a month now since you wrote. Write soon and tell me how you are, and when school will be out, for we want plenty of holidays in July so we can have a good time. I am going to send you something nice the last of this week. What do you guess it will be?
Lovingly, PAPA.
* * * *
The Caledonia
WEDNESDAY.
My Dear Mr. Jack:
I owe Gilman Hall $175 (or mighty close to it) pussonally--so he tells me. I thought it was only about $30, but he has been keeping the account. He's just got to have it to-day. McClure's will pay me some money on the 15th of June, but I can't get it until then. I was expecting it before this--anyhow before Gilman left, but they stick to the letter.
I wonder if you could give me a check for that much to pay him to-day. If you will I'll hold up my right hand--thus: that I'll have you a first-class story on your desk before the last of this week.
I reckon I'm pretty well overdrawn, but I've sure got to see that Hall gets his before he leaves. I don't want anything for myself.
Please, sir, let me know right away, by return boy if you'll do it.
If you can't, I'll have to make a quick dash at the three-ball magazines; and I do hate to tie up with them for a story.
The Same
MR. J. O. H. COSGRAVE, SYDNEY PORTER.
at this time editor of Everybody's Magazine.
* * * *
A letter to Gilman Hall,
written just before the writer's marriage to Miss Sara Lindsay Coleman of Asheville, N. C.
