Zoe had often written me of her affection for you, and I can readily understand her feeling, now that I have your personal acquaintance.
You have no mother, and your father, you say, absorbed in business, like so many American fathers, seems almost a stranger. Even the most devoted fathers, rarely understand their daughters.
Now, I want to take the part of a mother and write you to-day, as I would write my own daughter, had one been bestowed upon me with the many other blessings which are mine.
I could not ask for a fairer, more amiable, or brighter daughter than you, nor one possessed of a kinder or more unselfish nature.
You are lovable, entertaining, industrious, and refined.
But you possess one fault which needs eradicating, or at least a propensity which needs directing.
It is the habit of exaggeration in conversation.
I noticed that small happenings, amusing or exciting, became events of colossal importance when related by you.
I noticed that brief remarks were amplified and grew into something like orations when you repeated them.
I confess that you made small incidents more interesting, and insignificant words acquired poetic meaning under your tongue.