"Trixy, dear," asked Trif, as soon as she was well away from the throng, "how did the Admiral come to write that letter for you?"
"Why," explained Trixy, "I wanted that letter finished, you know, 'cause I promised papa when we started down here that I wouldn't neglect him, so I tried to finish it myself, but 'twas dreadful hard work for me, 'cause the bottom of a chair isn't a very good table, so I asked the Admiral to finish it for me."
"But the letter itself—where did you get it? Where is it now?"
"Got it out of your portfolio, where you put it when you stopped writin' it."
"You dreadful child! The letter I began for you I sent to your father, just as it was, and the one you took from my portfolio was my own."
Trixy had often been called dreadful; the word was in common use in the family, although it was generally accompanied by a smile and a kiss. Now, however, there was no such demonstration. Trif looked so stern that Trixy began to cry, and, as the mother's expression did not relax, the child was soon crying industriously, while Fenie, who had been looking on from a distance wondering what was going on, and indignant that any one—except, perhaps, herself—should do anything to make the dear child uncomfortable, hurried to the rescue.
"I think you're making a great fuss about a very small matter," said Fenie, with the firm conviction and superior sense peculiar to very young women. "I don't see anything to it that you can complain of, except that Trixy got the wrong letter finished. I'm sure you can have written nothing which was unfit for your husband to receive."
"But suppose the Admiral has chanced to read what was already written?"
"Suppose he did? What then?"