“I fear me you’re a sad coquette, Miss Barlow,” and the chaperon beamed on her.
“I am a coquette,” Helen admitted, calmly, “but not at all a sad one! Indeed, I’m as merry as a grig. Why, I get letters from lots of the boys in camp. Miss Fairfield is content with only one correspondent, while I have a dozen! I just adore to get their letters, and to send them things, and to write to them. The war is terrible, but it does give one some new and pleasant experiences. And I don’t feel it my duty to lament all the time. My mission is cheering people up and cheering soldiers on.”
“I make no doubt you’re a grand success at it, too. And some day you’ll decide to send all your letters to the same address, as Miss Fairfield does. Where is Mr. Farnsworth now, may I ask?”
“In Washington,” Patty replied.
“And is he coming to New York soon?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.” Patty spoke a little coldly, for Bill had cautioned her over and over again, never on any account to tell any one of his plans or to repeat anything he might write, which concerned military matters or might give war information of any sort.
“How you must long to know! I don’t mean definitely, of course, but can’t you hope to see him soon?”
An insistent tone in Mrs. Doremus’ voice caused Patty to look up quickly, and she saw the keen eyes regarding her intently through the big glasses.
But though the old lady’s interest might have been a bit strong for such short acquaintance, Patty was too polite to resent that, and she laughed and said, “It’s impossible to tell, with a soldier boy. One can only hope,—one may not expect.”
“That’s a philosophical attitude, my dear, and does you credit. Is Captain Farnsworth in the Engineers’ Camp?”