The picture and the book have come. The picture is splendid. It dominates my room.
Bobby was awfully fond of me. Lots of things I had forgotten come back as I look at the picture—the night he was allowed by mother after some hours of hard begging to take me to Commencement at the Female Seminary in old Roseboro and sat with his arm stretched on the back of the bench. I did not think it would be nice of me to ask him to remove it, and my back aches right now again at thought of the rigidity of my spine through the long hours of that female evening. You would not be guilty of such a ruralism now, Mr. Cosmopolite.
I have written him. It is only polite to let him know that I appreciate the picture and the book.
October 2d.
Monday Afternoon.
Bobby’s letter was here this afternoon when I got in from school. Wasn’t it marvellous that it could get here? My eyes went straight to the table and I felt kind of queer and quivery all over when I saw the big square envelope with the bold handwriting that looked as familiar as if I had been getting his letters all my life. Here is his letter:
New York, September 30th.
My Dear Miss Carrie:
Never thought you were going to stir up so much trouble when you did me that big favour of writing a “hello” to me across the mountains, did you? Well, please let me write this time, and if it’s too much, give me the teeny-weenyest bit of a hint, and I’ll turn my pen into a sword and cut it all out.
Was it cheeky of you to write to me? My dear Miss Carrie, I don’t know exactly what the unpardonable sin is, but if you hadn’t written, I’d feel awfully anxious about your future.
Right here let me assure you that I’m not one of these confirmed correspondents. Hand on my heart! I vow I haven’t written two pages at a time to anybody in years and years. My closest friends complain that I don’t even answer letters. But when I hear from—oh, you forbade that, didn’t you.