And in he scrambled, returning triumphant with an exceedingly shabby book.
We walked a full hour and a half, through the park, through the woods, and through the park again, for he insisted on bringing me back to the little blue door. We talked mostly about “Peer Gynt,” which, by the way, he is reading in the original. He seems to read every possible language, although he declares he speaks nothing but English. We did not talk at all about ourselves, so I know nothing further about him, save that he lives in a cottage on the heath towards Miltonhoe, with his father and his aunt.
When we parted company, he asked me if I would mind going to see his aunt.
“I believe,” said he, “that she ought to call first on you,—at least, she says so,—but that she’ll never do. If I landed her at your very door, she’d never find courage to ring the bell.”
“Very well,” said I; “I’ll come to her instead.”
And the sprite vanished.
I think I shall go to-morrow, or perhaps next day.
Good-bye, sweet,
Your Emilia.
LETTER XIV.
Graysmill, October 23d.