“And then if I were to tell you that I like the little wickedness, like to close hands with it, and master it.”
“Then I would tell you that you are downright vicious! But you don’t master it; you never can!”
“Yes; you ride with me when you have just been saying that you certainly will stay at home. I throw away your pen and hold you fast, when you have just been saying that you will write, that you care less for me than for your old pen. Don’t you remember it?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. I like to remember it, because, for some reason, it is better mastering you once, than any other woman that I know ten times.”
I turned the conversation by showing him the beautiful little brook that went leaping and tinkling amongst the rocks, and icicles, and fairy-like frost-work close by the road. One finds such little brooks at every turn among the hills here at Danville. He looked at the brook, calling it “beautiful!” He took my hand into his, and kept it until we reached home.
He must go home in a few days; he has stayed already twice as long as he intended when he came. I wonder how I can get along without him. I foresee that I shall want him as a child wants its mother.
I will write again soon after he goes. Heigho! says
Your Loving Monde.
——