My dear Little Boy,—
Your poor old grandmother was so glad to get those letters, after such long waiting! My dear child, we were anxious; but now we are pleased. I was afraid you were down with the measles, for they’re about. Your aunt Phebe thinks you had ’em when you were a month old; but I know better.
Your father was anxious himself at not hearing; though he didn’t show it any. But I could see it plain enough. As soon as he brought the letters in, I set a light in the window to let your aunt Phebe know she was wanted. She came running across the yard, all of a breeze. You know how your aunt Phebe always comes running in.
“What is it?” says she. “Letters from Billy? I mistrusted ’t was letters from Billy. In his own handwriting? Must have had ’em pretty light. Measles commonly leave the eyes very bad.”
But you know how your aunt Phebe goes running on. Your father came in, and sat down in his rocking-chair,—your mother’s chair, dear. Your sister was sewing on her doll’s cloak by the little table. She sews remarkably well for a little girl.
“Now, Phebe,” says I, “read loud, and do speak every word plain.” I put on my glasses, and drew close up, for she does speak her words so fast. I have to look her right in the face.
At the beginning, where you speak about being whipped, your father’s rocking-chair stopped stock still. You might have heard a pin drop. Georgianna said, “O dear!” and down dropped the doll’s cloak. “Pshaw!” said Aunt Phebe, “’t isn’t very likely our Billy’s been whipped.”
Then she read on and on, and not one of us spoke. Your father kept his arms folded up, and never raised his eyes. I had to look away, towards the last, for I couldn’t see through my glasses. Georgianna cried. And, when the end came, we all wiped our eyes.
“Now what’s the use,” said Aunt Phebe, “for folks to cry before they’re hurt?”
“But you almost cried yourself,” said Georgianna. “Your voice was different, and your nose is red now.” And that was true.