Dear Mrs. Grey:—I have not the faintest idea that you are pining for a letter from me, but it is a relief to me now and then to say that I love you, and the size of the sheet I write it on is no symbol how much.
I am reading a delightful book to my invalid auntie; in it a lady speaks of a friend as an "Amen to the Bible." That, say I, is what Mrs. Grey has been to me.
Again, "Mrs. Jameson was the consoler of her sex in England." Ah, say I, Mrs. Grey is the consoler of her sex in America.
But you will think I have been kissing the blarney stone. But when people mean things, can't they say them?
I stay with auntie all the time, day and night, and am real happy in a quiet way, for I do feel, in a small degree, I know, but a great deal more than ever before, the loving-kindness of my Heavenly Father, the goodness and severity of God.
Yours, lovingly and gratefully,
Helena.
"What a graceful little note, and on what a tiny sheet!" exclaimed Margaret. "Who is this Helena? Any one I know?"
"You have never seen her, but she often visits me, and I love her much. Her forte is in writing charming letters. I shall want you to know her. But you want to write to Belle now, and I won't detain you."