"Why?" I asked.
"Because," she answered.
"That is no reason," I replied. "Of course you have written nothing that you would not want me or your father to see?"
"Well, yes, I have," she returned emphatically. "A great deal. Would you,
Betty, want any one to see such a letter written by yourself?"
"I suppose I could write a letter which I should want but one person in all the world to see," returned Betty, arching her eyebrows.
"To whom would it be directed, Betty?" I asked, to tease her.
A faint expression of reproach came to her eyes, but after a moment of pretty hesitancy, she answered boldly:—
"Since you are so unwise as to ask, I'll answer in like folly. The letter could be directed to but one person in the world—you."
I had received more than I had expected, and though I longed to make a suitable return, I dared not for the sake of my vows, so we all remained silent, and somewhat embarrassed, for a minute or two.
Turning to Frances, I said: "If you don't want me to read your letter, I'll give you the key, and you may make it into cipher." But after examining the key, she declared that she could never learn to use it, and I suggested that she write a shorter letter in terms fit for a modest man to read.