"Why, I'll be thirteen in eleven months."
"That is," with a laugh," you were twelve last month; now in ten years how old will you be?"
"Let's see," bringing her fingers into play, "aught's an aught, and two's two," marking that down with her index finger in her left palm, "then one and one is two, why, that's twenty-two, isn't it?"
"Really, Molly, I'm ashamed of you to be so slow in adding."
"Well, I never did like addition, it's substraction I'm so smart in."
"Yes, it must be substraction, I think," sarcastically.
"Yes, that's it," with entire oblivion of her sister's accent; "and now
I begin to see, when I'm twenty-two I won't be a girl?"
"Hardly."
"Yes; but I'll be a woman, and that's worse, isn't it? Oh! there's Kathie, and she's got some cookies that are too dry to sell; I'm going to help her eat them," with which laudable purpose away she ran, to forget the limitations of her sex in an operation dear to both.
About a week later came this letter from Morton.