“It sounds very pretty, Sibyl.”
“And you will come to-morrow and see it, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you will bring Lady Helen?”
“Your mother will bring Lady Helen.”
“It’s all the same,” replied Sibyl. “Oh, I am so glad.”
She talked a little longer, and then went upstairs.
Miss Winstead often spent Sunday with her friends. She was not in the schoolroom now as Sibyl entered. Sibyl thought this was a golden opportunity to write to her father. She sat down and prepared to write a letter. This was always a somewhat laborious task. Her thoughts flowed freely enough, but her hand could not wield the pen quite quick enough for the eager thoughts, nor was her spelling perfect, nor her written thoughts quite so much to the point as her spoken ones. Nevertheless, it was full time for her father to hear from her, and she had a great deal to say. She took a sheet of paper, dipped her pen in the ink, and began:
“Darlingist Father,—Yesterday I picked a rose at Silverbel, the place that mother wants us to have when you com bak rich. Here’s the rose for you. Pwaps it will be withered, father, but its hart will be alive. Kiss it and think of Sibyl. It’s hart is like my hart, and my hart thinks of you morning, noon, and night, evry night, father, and evry morning, and allways, allways during the hole of the day. It’s most portant, father, that you should come back rich. It’s most solum nesesarey. I do so hope the mine will be full up to the brim with gold, for if it is a lot of people here will be made happy. Have you found the mine yet, father, and is it ful to the brim of gold? You don’t know how portant it is. It’s cos of Mr. and Mrs. Holman, father, and their dusty broken toys, and cos of nursie and her spectakles, and cos of one who wants to marry another one, and I mustn’t tell names, and cos of the big-wigs, father. Oh, it is portant.
“Your lovin
“Sibyl.”