The girls are talking of a walk to Gurglepool early next week. It has been chilly, with frequent rain for some days, and Maggie has had a cold: otherwise they would have gone sooner. I have fully determined that when they go, I go too. I have a certain dread of the place for them: probably a nervous and unnecessary dread; and of course they wish to see it.
Elfie has been poorly again: and I am still mystified at the change in her. She looks wretched,—pale, peaked, plain; all prettiness and animation gone: her moods being variable, but almost always fretful, and her fancies quite unmanageable. She persistently turns from me to "Millie." Thyrza is my one comfort.
By-the-bye, I have not mentioned our Church, which is between two and three miles off. The services are forlorn and sleepy: just in the style of sixty years ago: and the sermons wind lengthily round and round in hazy circles. When I go, I cannot help thinking of Sir Keith's words, the first time I saw him, about the needed help being "always there," if one is willing. Yes: I am sure he is right. But I do feel very thankful for the different spiritual food provided for us in Glynde,—even though the heavier responsibility is involved.
August 17. Monday.—This morning, when the post came in, Maggie cried, "Oh! Two letters from strangers. I do believe it is both of them at once!"
There was a small burst of excitement and wonder the girls crowding round Maggie. She read aloud the first brief epistle, with an animation which paled visibly towards the close. Thyrza and I kept our seats, but nobody else did.
The letter was so tersely expressed, that it has remained word for word on my mind.
"MY DEAR YOUNG LADY,—You are most welcome to such advice as I can give you. My advice is,—Don't write till you can't help it! Never write merely for the sake of writing! When you have something to say which will be said, then say it in your best possible mode, and see if anybody counts it to be worth publishing. Till then, be a good girl, and mend your stockings. Yours truly—
"ANNA SMITH"
"How stupid! She can't be at all a nice old lady," said Nona. "And a friend of yours, Millie!!" The reproachful intonation is not to be described.
Millie hastened to disavow the friendship. She had met Mrs. Smith once, she said, and had thought her a kind old lady, only peculiar of course,—all authoresses being peculiar. This, with a side-glance at me; for "Millie" does not like Gladys Hepburn, and she knows that I do. I must honestly confess that Gladys does not like Miss Millington, and shows the same unequivocally in her manner.
"Yes, she must be peculiar," asserted Maggie, catching at the offered straw. "It is such a very odd letter,—really almost rude. I shall never write to ask her advice again."