"You must do one thing certainly, and that is write him about his father. You yourself must do it, darling."
"Why, what do you mean? You were just now showing me that this was the very thing which I could not do."
"You misunderstand me," said Hilda, with a smile. "Why, do you really mean to say that you do not see how easy it is to get out of this difficulty?"
"Easy! It seems to me a terrible one."
"Why, my darling child, don't you see that after you write your letter I can _copy_ it? You surely have nothing so very private to say that you will object to that. I suppose all that you want to do is to break the news to him as gently and tenderly as possible. You don't want to indulge in expressions of personal affection, of course."
"Oh, my dearest Hilda!" cried Zillah, overjoyed. "What an owl I am not to have thought of that! It meets the whole difficulty. I write--you copy it--and it will be _my_ letter after all. How I could have been so stupid I do not see. But I'm always so. As to any private confidences, there is no danger of any thing of that kind taking place between people who are so very peculiarly situated as we are."
"I suppose not," said Hilda, with a smile.
"But it's such a bore to copy letters."
"My darling, can any thing be a trouble that I do for you? Besides, you know how very fast I write."
"You are always so kind," said Zillah, as she kissed her friend fondly and tenderly. "I wish I could do something for you; but--poor me!--I don't seem able to do any thing for any body--not even for the dear old Earl. What wouldn't I give to be like you!"