"Queer, how? She's impatient to start,—that's all. What else could it mean?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. But the whole letter's queer,—if you ask me!"
"I do ask you,—and I ask you how it's queer."
"It's so,—so jumbly,—incoherent,—choppy."
"Pooh! don't criticise the lack of style in that poor country child. I'll teach her to write letters,—and I won't let her know I'm teaching her, either."
"You'll teach her lots of things,—I know,—and in that dear, gentle way of yours, that couldn't hurt or offend anybody. Well, I'll telegraph, then, for her to come ahead. What else shall I say?"
"Tell her what road to take, and all directions you can think of. Though it sounds to me, as if she thought she would have no difficulty as to travel."
"Sounds that way to me, too; but I suppose her father can look after such details. Queer message from her father."
"Not at all. You said he wasn't overfond of you, so as he sends his respects to you, I don't think you need ask for more."
"If she does start right off,—and I'm pretty sure she will,—she'll be here in a week or so."