Andrew wore overalls and a soft shirt and grew brown and tough. We became real farmers, up with the sun and to bed with the same. He rescued me from that and we bought a farm with our combined savings. I was slowly perishing as a conscientious governess in the brownstone region of New York. He and I were the only ones left in an unsuccessful family. Years ago Andrew was a business man, but his health failed and, like so many people in the story books, he fled to the country, or, as he called it, to the bosom of Nature. In other words, I am his sister, ten years younger. If I could have foreseen all the bother his writings were to cause us, I would certainly have burnt the first manuscript in the kitchen stove.Īndrew McGill, the author of those books every one reads, is my brother. Andrew and I were wonderfully happy on the farm until he became an author.
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