“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.”
Bud was not slow to take the opportunity. For half an hour she sat at the kitchen table and searched her soul for fitting words that would convey Kate’s adoration. Once or twice the maid asked what she was writing, but all she said was “Don’t worry, Kate. I’m right in the throes.” There were blots and there were erasions, but something like this did the epistle look when it was done:—
“My adorable Charles,—I am writeing this letter to let you know how much I truly love you. Oh Charles, dear, you are the Joy of my heart. I am thinking of you so often, often, till my Heart just aches. It is lovely wether here at present. Now I will tell you all about the Games. They took place in a park near here Friday and there was seventeen beautiful dancers. They danced to give you spassums. One of them was a Noble youth. He was a Prince in his own write, under Spells for sevn years. When he danced, lo and behold he was the admiration of all Beholders. Alas! poor youth. When I say alas I mean that it was so sad being like that full of Spells in the flower of his youth. He looked at me so sad when he was dancing, and I was so glad. It was just like money from home. Dear Charles, I will tell you all about myself. I am full of goodness most the time for God loves good people. But sometimes I am not and I have a temper like two crost sticks when I must pray to be changed. The dancing gentleman truly loves me to distruction. He kissed my hand and hastily mountain his noble steed, galoped furiously away. Ah, the coarse of true love never did run smooth. Perhaps he will fall upon the forein plain. Dearest Charles—adorable—I must now tell you that I am being educated for my proper station in life. There is Geograpy, and penmanship with the right commas, and Long Division and conjunctives which I abomiate. But my teacher, a sweet lady named Miss Alison Dyce, says they are all truly refining. Oh I am weary, weary, he cometh not. That is for you, darling Charles, my own.—Your true heart love,
Kate MacNeill.”
“Is that all right?” asked Bud anxiously.