"Of course, I will. That's precious little to do anyhow."
"It's a good deal, really. But be sure you do it."
"And, of course, you'll write to me sometimes. I don't think you know yet what your letters are to me. I never work so well as when I've had a letter from you."
"Really, dear lad, I don't fancy you know how happy that makes me to hear."
"Yes, you take just the sort of interest in my work I want, and that no one else takes."
"Not even Angel?" said Myrtilla, slily.
"Angel, bless her, loves my work; and is a brave little critic of it; but then it isn't disloyal to her to say that she doesn't know as much as you. Besides, she doesn't approach it in quite the same way. She cares for it, first, because it is mine, and only secondly for its own sake. Now you care for it just for what it is--"
"I care for it, certainly, for what it's going to be," said Myrtilla, making one of those honest distinctions which made her opinion so stimulating to Henry.
"Yes, there you are. You're artistically ambitious for me; you know what I want to do, even before I know myself. That's why you're so good for me. No one but you is that for me; and--poor stuff as I know it is--never write a word without wondering what you will think of it."
"You're sure it's quite true," said Myrtilla; "don't say so if it isn't. Because you know you're saying what I care most to hear, perhaps, of anything you could say. You know how I love literature, and--well, you know too how fond I am of you, dear lad, don't you?"