"Edith," said Star, this day, while standing by the pond watching the leaping fountain and playful golden fish, and noting how quiet Edith was. "I wrote to Mr. Winthrope yesterday."
"Oh, Star," said Edith, with a deprecating frown, "I hope you have not gone and forgotten yourself to such an extent that you have written first?"
"Forgot myself, Edith? Why, bless your heart, no; he wrote me first," replied Star, with a merry laugh.
"Wrote first?" asked Edith, in surprise.
"Yes; he just did write first; and I told him that he was real mean in not writing sooner," said Star.
"What did he say?" asked Edith, gazing vacantly into the water.
"About all he said was asking about your health. It is mean in him, I repeat, that he said no more. He said, though, that when your father was in New York, he told him you were fast improving."
"What was your answer, Star?"
"Oh, goodness! I wrote six pages, about everything, almost, and informed him that—"
"Now, Star; you didn't write anything that would be indiscreet, did you?"