“Are you still thinking of the wedding gown?”
“Only vaguely.”
“Azalea, have you any secret to tell us?”
“None.”
“Could Mrs. McBirney throw any light on that peculiar smile of yours?”
“Ask her.”
But would dear old Ma go back on me? You know she would not.
“Zalie is like my Jim,” she drawled, “a good deal of a tease.”
I threw her a kiss. And Uncle David shook his fist at me.
Ah, Carin, why are you not here? Why can we not slip in bed side by side each night as we used up at Sunset Gap? I have so many things to tell you, and I cannot begin to make them clear merely writing them like this. Though I find I like to write. I have been reading and reading for years and thinking how hard it must be to write, and now, for the first time, I am really trying my hand at it, and I find it about as easy as breathing. Of course, writing to you, who understand me and my ways so well, makes it particularly easy. I do not say that I would dare to write for strangers or that I would like to do it. And yet, I wonder, Carin, if one were to write a book just as if one were talking to a friend, showing all one’s heart and counting on the readers to understand and sympathize, if it would not be a good book.