“Your sincere friend,
“HEPSEY.”
“My!” exclaimed Hepsey, with overmastering pride; “ain't that beautiful! It's better than his'n, ain't it?”
“I wouldn't say that,” Ruth replied, with proper modesty, “but I think it will do.”
“Yes'm. 'Twill so. Your writin' ain't nothin' like Joe's,” she continued, scanning it closely, “but it's real pretty.” Then a bright idea illuminated her countenance. “Miss Thorne, if you'll write it out on the note paper with a pencil, I can go over it with the ink, and afterward, when it's dry, I'll rub out the pencil. It'll be my writin' then, but it'll look jest like yours.”
“All right, Hepsey.”
She found it difficult to follow the lines closely, but at length achieved a respectable result. “I'll take good care of it,” Hepsey said, wrapping the precious missive in a newspaper, “and this afternoon, when I get my work done up, I'll fix it. Joe'll be surprised, won't he?”
Late in the evening, when Hepsey came to Ruth, worn with the unaccustomed labours of correspondence, and proudly displayed the nondescript epistle, she was compelled to admit that unless Joe had superhuman qualities he would indeed “be surprised.”
The next afternoon Ruth went down to Miss Ainslie's. “You've been neglecting me, dear,” said that gentle soul, as she opened the door.
“I haven't meant to,” returned Ruth, conscience-stricken, as she remembered how long it had been since the gate of the old-fashioned garden had swung on its hinges for her.