"You are such a dear, sweet letter writer," he said. "The boys only send messages by mother, and she hasn't the fashion of telling me all the little things about them that you do. You picture everything so that I can see it. Mr. Harris writes about business and books, and what the American and what the Democrat says, and the squabbles of the city government. But I like to go down to the very heart of things, to know when you have a new frock, and the little companies you attended, and the plays and the walks, and the new wild flowers you have found. Is there any place like the boyhood home, any other little girl like you? Not if I should search the world over.
"I have been reading some wonderful plays by Shakespeare. Mr. Harris has a copy, I know. Ask him to let you see 'Midsummer Night's Dream.' We went to a theatre here in Quebec and saw it played. I can't tell why, but I thought of you all the time. 'If she were here, if she were here,' I kept saying to every turn. It was enchanting. I cannot do it any justice in a letter, and I have written so much already. Oh, why can't people talk through space? I sometimes send messages on the wind—do you get them, dear? Send me back some. And—can you believe at Christmas or thereabout I shall see you? I measure six feet now, and sometimes I think I begin to look like Dan, only I shall never be as handsome. Tell me all about his girls. It's high time he was married."
It was written very closely, and oh, what a delight it was! I sat there all of a tremble hugging it to my heart. Joe was hammering on the steps with the new potato masher that Homer had made, and I never heard him. M'liss came in wringing her hands as if she was squeezing the suds out of them.
"Fer the land sakes! Haven't you done a bit about dinner? I see you come in, an' sez I, 'She'll peel the 'taters sure,' an' here you're sittin' calm as if dinners come to hand already cooked. Ye might as well bin in school, then I'd a-knowed jest what to do."
"I'm sorry," I said penitently. "But I had such a splendid long letter from Norman." Then I jumped up and there was a sound like a pistol. A continual dripping will wear away a stone saith the adage—the steady pounding on the stone had split my masher.
"Drat that young un!" M'liss gave him two or three slaps, and the roar of little Joe was terrific.
"Oh don't!" I cried, and went to comfort him.
"You'll jes' spile that fatherless child, who'll need a man to govern him 'fore long, he's that deestructive. You goin' to peel the 'taters or me?"
I smiled at the question, but went for the potatoes, and soon had them over the fire.
"Ther's beans to heat up, an' that ther huckleberry puddin' to steam over. People can't have much to do whenst they write letters so long it takes a whole mornin' to read 'em. I've got the clothes to hang up."