“Yes, if the person you love is more sensible than you are.”
“Is she? And is she nice?”
“Nice! Martha Mary, let me tell you about her. In the first place, she is very small for such a grown-up person. She looks no more than fifteen, but she is all of twenty years old. And she is so fine—and really very pretty, Ladykin. She has oodles and oodles of brown hair and the kindest, softest brown eyes and the dearest funny little nose and a strong, mannish jaw. You couldn’t help liking her. And she likes nice things; birds and flowers and books—and fairies, too. And she likes me!”
“Now I know,” said Martha Mary.
“What?”
“You told Mother Dear when you came that you had aspirations. Mother would not tell me what aspirations were, but now I know. She is it.”
“Not exactly,” said Flip. “But she has to do with them. Shall I tell you all about them?”
“Please,” said Martha Mary.
“Well, it began years and years ago. I lived in San Francisco with a splendid father and a mother as lovely and fine as Mother Dear. My best friend was a little, brown-haired girl. Her name was Janet, but that was too grown-up and old-fashioned, so we called her Jane although that is rather old-fashioned, too. But, you see, Jane was an old-fashioned girl. We played the nicest games, Martha Mary, and when we were tired I would tell Jane stories just like I tell you. One day a man came to Jane’s house. He stood behind the door and listened to one of my stories. Later he made me tell him others. When I had finished he said that when I was older I would be an author and write books. That became my aspiration. I made up my mind to be an author; not a great one who would try to change the world, but just a simple, quiet one who could tell stories that would make people just a little more happy. Then, Ladykin, one night something awful happened. I will not tell you much about it. There came a terrible earthquake. I don’t like to talk about it. A brick chimney fell right on my mother and father’s bed and killed them. It was awfully lonely then. I had learned to love Jane meanwhile but I was quite poor and so I had to go away. I couldn’t make money writing stories because my work was not good enough and I was not known. So I decided to work on a farm and write when I found the time. And here I am. Now, Martha Mary, guess what!”
“What?” asked Martha Mary.