Mildred could not have told why she cried. She only knew that Lilian’s words grated harshly, but hers was a sunshiny nature, and conquering all emotion, she returned Lilian’s caress and said: “I will write the letter, Lily,—write it to-night if you like.”
“I knew you would. You’re a splendid girl,” and giving her another hug Lilian jumped back into bed, and made herself quite comfortable while Mildred knotted up her silken hair and brought out her desk preparatory to her task.
Never before had it caused her so much pain to write “Dear Lawrence” as to-night, and she was tempted to omit it, but Lilian was particular to have every word. “She never could remember, unless she saw it before her, whether the ‘Dear’ and the ‘Lawrence’ occupied the same or separate lines,” she said; so Mildred wrote it down at last, while half unconsciously to herself she repeated the words, “Dear Lawrence.”
“You merely wish to invite him here?” she said to Lilian, who answered: “That’s the main thing; but you must write three pages at least, or he won’t be satisfied. Tell him what a nice journey we had, and how pleasant Beechwood is. Tell him all about your new piano, and what a splendid girl you are,—how I wonder he never fell in love with you,—but I’m glad he didn’t; tell him how much Oliver knows, and how much better he looks than I thought he did; that if he was bigger and hadn’t such funny feet he’d almost do for you; tell him how dearly I like him,—Lawrence, I mean, not Oliver,—how glad I shall be when he comes, and Geraldine must send my coral ear-rings and bracelets, and——”
“Stop, stop! You drive me distracted!” cried Mildred, who, from this confused jumble, was trying to make out a sensible letter.
Her task was finished at last, and she submitted it to Lilian’s inspection.
“But you didn’t tell him what a splendid girl you are, nor how much I like him,” said Lilian, her countenance falling at once. “Can’t you add it in a postscript somehow?”
“Never mind, Lily,” returned Mildred, lifting one of the long golden curls which had escaped from the lace cap. “He knows you like him, and when he comes you can tell him anything you please of me. It does not look well in me to be writing my own praises.”
“But you used to,” said Lilian. “You wrote to him once, ‘I love Mildred Howell best of anybody in the world, don’t you?’ and he answered back, ‘Yes, next to you, Fairy, I love Mildred best.’ Don’t you remember it, Milly?”
Mildred did remember it, and remembered, too, how that answer had wrung from her bitter tears; but she made no reply, and, as Lilian began to show signs of sleepiness, she arose cautiously and put aside the letter, which would be copied next morning in Lilian’s delicate little hand and sent on its way to Boston.