“Then I'll read it. It—it rather annoys me in some ways. I thought the whole family understood that I wasn't living by myself any longer—that I was living with you. I'm sure I thought I wrote them that, long ago. But this sounds almost as if they didn't understand it—at least, as if this girl didn't.”
“How old is she?”
“I don't know; but she must be some old, to be coming here to Boston to study music, alone—singing, I think she said.”
“You don't remember her, then?”
Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter half withdrawn from its envelope.
“No—but that isn't strange. They live West. I haven't seen any of them for years. I know there are several children—and I suppose I've been told their names. I know there's a boy—the eldest, I think—who is quite a singer, and there's a girl who paints, I believe; but I don't seem to remember a 'Mary Jane.'”
“Never mind! Suppose we let Mary Jane speak for herself,” suggested Billy, dropping her chin into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling herself to listen.
“Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she opened the letter and began to read.
“DEAR AUNT HANNAH:—This is to tell you
that I'm coming to Boston to study singing in
the school for Grand Opera, and I'm planning to
look you up. Do you object? I said to a friend
the other day that I'd half a mind to write to Aunt
Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend
retorted: 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' But
that, of course, I should not think of doing.
“But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah,
and I hope you'll let me see you once in a
while, anyway. I plan now to come next week
—I've already got as far as New York, as you see
by the address—and I shall hope to see you
soon.
“All the family would send love, I know.
“M. J. ARKWRIGHT.”
“Grand Opera! Oh, how perfectly lovely,” cried Billy.