Miss Borden gave her pencil and paper.
Marilla went to the kitchen nursery, sat down on a stool and put her paper on the bottom of the wooden chair. She began—“Dear Dr. Richards.” Oh, there was so much to say! She was well and the babies were improved and could talk a good deal and looked better for not being so fat. She really liked home better and Bridget’s kitchen was so clean, and there was always a nice white cloth on the table. It seemed a funny way to live but many of the people did not have 162 meals in their own houses, but went over to the eating place. “I can’t spell the other word,” she admitted naively. There were so many pretty girls in lovely frocks who walked up and down and didn’t have to take care of babies. “I don’t believe I am as fond of babies as I used to be. I get tired of having them every day,” she explained frankly. “And soon I shall begin to count on the five years.”
She filled up the whole sheet, folded, slipped it in the envelope and fastened it. Oh, she must ask for a stamp. She could run down to the postoffice.
Miss Borden was curious to know what was in the letter, whether Marilla had found any fault with her surroundings, but the eager, honest face disarmed curiosity that could not be easily gratified. So the letter went its way.
There were many things to entertain a child whose former life had been narrow. Some of the girls spoke to her. “Were the babies her sisters?”
“Oh, no. She was—well their nurse.”
“How odd they looked! Is that little Jack their brother?” 163
“Yes.” Oh how ardently she wished they were pretty.
“He looks more like you than like them. You’ve both got such pretty curly hair, though his is darker. I think curly hair’s just lovely. I wish mine curled, and you’ve such a pretty dimple in your chin.”
Marilla blushed at the praise.