Then she found that the letter was from Jack, and Lucinda was completely forgotten in the pleasure of opening and reading it.
DEAR AUNT MARY:
It seems so strange how I’m just learning the pleasure of writing letters. I enjoy it more every day. When I see a pen I can hardly keep from feeling that I ought to write you directly. I think of you, then, because I’m thinking of you most always. It seems as if I never appreciated you before, Aunt Mary.
I want to tell you something that I know will make you happy. I’ve never made you very happy Aunt Mary, but I’m going to begin now. I’ve got a place where I can earn my own living, and I’m going to work just as soon as I am strong enough. I’m as tickled as a baby over it. I’ll lay you any odds I get to be a richer man than the other John Watkins. I reckon money was bad for me, Aunt Mary, and I can see that you’ve done just the right thing to make a man of me. That isn’t surprising, because you always did do just the right thing, Aunt Mary; it was I that always did just the wrong thing, but I’m straightened out now and this time it’s forever—you just wait and see.
There’s one thing bothers me some, and that is I don’t get strong very fast. They want me to take a tonic, but I don’t think a tonic would help me much. I feel so sort of blue and depressed, and perhaps that’s natural, for Bob’s away most of the time and I’m here all alone. It’s a big house and sort of lonely and sometimes I find myself imagining how it would seem to have someone from home in it with me, and I find myself almost crying—I do, for a fact, Aunt Mary.
Next week, Bob is going to be away more than usual, and I’m dreading it awfully; but never mind, Aunt Mary, I don’t want to make you blue, because honestly I don’t think I’m going into a decline, even if the doctor does. And, after all, if I did sort of dwindle away it wouldn’t matter much, for I’m not worth anything, and no one knows that as well as myself—except you, Aunt Mary. I must stop because it’s nine o’clock and time I was in bed. I’ve got some socks to wash out first, too; you see, I’m learning how to economize just as fast as I can. It’s only two miles to my work, and I’m going to walk back and forth always—that’ll be between fifty cents and a dollar saved each week. I’m figuring on how to live on my salary and never have a debt, and you’ll be proud of me yet, Aunt Mary—if I don’t die first.
Think of me all alone here next week. If I wasn’t steadfast as a rock I believe I’d do something foolish just to get out of myself. But never mind, Aunt Mary, it’s all right.
Your afft. nephew,
JOHN WATKINS, JR., DENHAM.
When Lucinda returned from drying her feet, Aunt Mary had her handkerchief in one hand and spectacles in the other.
“Saints and sinners!” cried the maid, in a voice that grated with sympathy. “He ain’t writ to say he’s dead, is he?”