On one especial morning a whole budget of news arrived. There was one from Major Fielding to his daughter, announcing his speedy arrival on a short leave. There was one from Justin to his sister, filled with good news of his military success and his personal well-being. There was one from Lieutenant Ethel, promising a short visit to the city, and a call upon his fair friends at the parsonage. And lastly there was one from Britomarte, postmarked Baltimore, and filled with the warmest expressions of affection for Erminie, and the most satisfactory statements concerning her own health and success. But where she was living, or what she was doing, remained unrevealed secrets.
Elfie, to whom Erminie read the letter, screwed up her mouth, and looked like “she could an’ if she would” “a tale unfold,” but she didn’t.
And besides, Elfie was interested in the other letters, and preferred to talk of them and their subjects—her father’s promised visit, Justin’s encouraging successes, and even young Ethel’s prospective call.
“It is likely that pap and Ethel will both be here to-day or to-morrow, Erminie, don’t you think?” she inquired.
Erminie coincided with her in opinion.
That morning the young ladies lingered so long over their breakfast table and their delightful letters, that it was rather later than usual when they set off for the hospitals.
“The morning is so delicious that we will walk, I think, Elfie,” said Miss Rosenthal, as they emerged from the front door.
“All right. I would rather walk,” agreed Elfie.
And they set out at a brisk pace.
“Erminie, I always knew you had a very light, elastic step, but indeed, to-day you seem to walk with ‘winged feet,’ as Homer has it. And now I look at you, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are dancing. It is all of a piece, and all equally the effect of those delightful letters, I do suppose,” said Elfie.