“They're all bad pens; they're all devilish,” said Bud, from long experience. “But I'd love to help you write that letter. Let me see—pooh! it's dreff'le bad, Kate. I can't read a bit of it, almost.”
“I'm sure and neither can I,” said Kate, distressed.
“Then how in the world do you expect Charles to read it?” asked Bud.
“Oh, he's—he's a better scholar than me,” said Kate, complacently. “But you might write this one for me.”
Bud washed her hands, took a chair to the kitchen table, threw back her hair from her eyes, and eagerly entered into the office of love-letter-writer, “What will I say to him?” she asked.
“My dear, dear Charles,” said the maid, who at least knew so much.
“My adorable Charles,” said Bud, as an improvement, and down it went with the consent of the dictator.
“I'm keeping fine, and I'm very busy,” suggested Kate, upon deliberation. “The weather is capital here at present, and it is a good thing, for the farmers are busy with their hay.”
Bud sat back and stared at her in amazement. “Are you sure this is for a Charles?” she asked. “You might as well call him Sissy and talk frocks. Why, you must tell him how you love him.”
“Oh, I don't like,” said Kate, confused. “It sounds so—so bold and impudent when you put it in the English and write it down. But please yourself; put down what you like and I'll be dipping the pen for you.”