"I shall write you, Delia, all about everything; you know you want to hear all about things."
"Would I own to being a woman if I did n't?" She laughed her hearty laugh; then, with a little hesitancy: "And, my dear, I 'd think kindly of you for writing me, and I 'd like to know that all is going well with you, but you know there's Doctor Rugvie to reckon with, and he won't hold to much correspondence, I 'm thinking, between me and—what's the name of that place? I can't pronounce it—"
"Richelieu-en-Bas."
"Rich—I can't get the twist of it round my English tongue; say it again, and may be I 'll catch it."
I repeated it twice for her, but her results were not equal to her efforts. We both laughed.
"Never mind, Delia; and don't tell me Doctor Rugvie is going to say to whom I shall write or to whom I shan't—especially if it's my friend, Delia Beaseley."
"Well, I can't say, my dear; but I 'll speak to him about it when he gets home—"
"Now, no nonsense from a sensible woman, Delia Beaseley; I should think I was going into a land of mysteries to hear you talk."
She laughed again. "I don't say as it's a mystery, but I can't help thinking he wants to keep the matter quiet like, you see."
"But I don't see—and I don't intend to," I said obstinately.