She soon returned in triumph, with a pen in her hand. Sitting down at the table, she drew up the wick of the lamp with a pin, squared herself to begin, and said, "Now dictate, aunty."
Ivo's mother sat behind the table in the corner under the crucifix, and tried to peel an additional potato. She said,--
"Write 'Dear Ivo.' 'Got that?"
"Yes."
"'I'm thinking of you now. Not an hour and not a day passes but I think of you; and at night, when I lie awake in bed, my thoughts are with you, dear Ivo.'"
"Not so fast, or I can't get it down," clamored poor Emmerence. She raised her blushing face, looked into the light, and gnawed her pen. These were the very words she would have written had she penned the letter in her own name. Laying her face almost on a level with the paper, she now began to write, and at last said, "'Dear Ivo.' Go on."
"No; first read to me what you have written."
Emmerence did so.
"That's right. Now write again, 'I am not quite easy about your having changed your mind so quickly'--Stop! don't write that: that's not a good way to begin."
Emmerence rested her chin on her hand and waited. But Christina said,--