Somehow the thought jarred her serenity, and, not knowing what reply to make, she finally settled the doubt in her mind by saying that if he wrote to her she would answer him if her mother thought best. For, happily, Nathalie was a real mother-girl, and, when in doubt about anything, always went to her for advice.
On the way home—Mrs. Van Vorst had sent them in her car—she had a disappointed feeling. She wished Van had not asked her to write to him, or told her about that other Blue Robin, for—O dear! she had heard of boys who would coax a girl to write to them, and then show their letters and make a boast of them. Ah, well, she sighed regretfully, she had not supposed he was that kind.
A few days later Nathalie was sitting under the trees before a small sewing-table, writing a letter to Helen. Presently she laid down her pen, and glanced over at her mother, who, while resting in the hammock near, had fallen asleep. Then, so as not to awaken her, almost in a whisper, she read:
“Dear Helen:
“I am going to call this letter ‘The Funnies,’ for I have some awfully funny things I want you to know, but first, I must tell you about my liberty kids, as I have promised to do many times. Danny is fourteen, a regular street-gamin, steeped and double-dyed in the ways of the slums and the habits of a newsie. There is an alert sharpness about him at times that baffles me, and yet his freckled, peanut face, with its twinkling blue eyes, has an open, merry expression that assures me he has the makings of a splendid man in him. I call him my handy man, for he not only does all the laundering for the children, but can cook, and wait on the table in fine style.
“He is a loyal little chap, so watchful of Sheila, and always tells the truth. He used to belong to the Junior Police Force,—he’s awfully proud of that,—and I think that has kept him on the square. I have an idea that his parents must have been refined people, for, when cleaning his room one day, his bag flew open—it was standing in a corner—and a little blue book fell out, scattering a lot of letters about, and a picture. The picture was a miniature of a young woman. She had a lovely face, it reminded me of Sheila, and her eyes had the same laughing glints in them that Danny has in his. The blue book seemed to be a diary, for on it in gilt letters was the name, Sheila Gloom.
“I have told you how quaint and interesting Sheila is, and lots about Jean, so I am going to tell you about Tony. He reminds me of one of Raphael’s cherubs, with his soft, liquid brown eyes, his red lips and ivory-tinted skin, and his wavy black hair that is always in a frowse. He adores me, and has an odd, sweet little trick of taking my hand, and then bending down and kissing it, in such a gallant way that he makes me think of the knights of mediæval days, who knelt to their ladies fair. And I love to hear him say, ‘I lova you, Mees Natta,’ for his voice is so soft and musical. But alas, he is not as open as Danny, and will tell teeny, teeny white lies, while looking right up into your face with such a cherubic, innocent expression, that you have the feeling that you are the guilty one, and not he.
“Did I tell you in my last letter what good friends the little old lady in the red house and I have become? I run in there quite often. Sometimes I read to her, or hold her yarn, and for two days I nursed her when she was ill. I am a great chatterbox, for, O dear! I just talk about everything to her, but she says my chats cheer her up. But, you see, she keeps asking me questions, first about one person of our household, and then another. She loves to have me tell her about Janet, but she doesn’t seem to like Cynthia very much.
“I am getting used to her queer ways now, and can tell, by the gleam in her gray eyes,—sometimes they snap with humor,—the mood she is in, for, frankly speaking, at times she is most cantankerous. I feel sorry for her then, for I imagine that some great sorrow has come into her life and soured the sweetness of it. She is always greatly interested in Mr. de Brie, and I have promised to take him in sometime to see her.
“Oh, I must not forget to tell you that Dick is with us for a few days—on a furlough. And mother,—well, she goes about like a glorified saint. Now come the funnies. Cynthia Loretto’s young man is here. His name is Buddie, but he looks anything but a bud, although Cyn always speaks of him as if he had just gone into long trousers.