It ’s the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. (That is n’t original. I got it out of one of Shakespeare’s plays.)
However, to resume. Do you want me to tell you a secret that I ’ve lately discovered? And will you promise not to think me vain? Then listen:
I ’m pretty.
I am, really. I ’d be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room.
A Friend.
P. S. This is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels.
December 20th.
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I ’ve just a moment, because I must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suitcase, and catch the four-o’clock train—but I could n’t go without sending a word to let you know how much I appreciate my Christmas box.
I love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse—and most of all I love you! But Daddy, you have no business to spoil me this way. I ’m only human—and a girl at that. How can I keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities?