“Dear Clover,—You don’t know how glad I am when my turn comes to get a letter all to myself. Of course I read papa’s, and all the rest you write to the family, but it never seems as if you were talking to me unless you begin ‘Dear Elsie.’ I wish some time you’d put in a little note marked ‘private,’ just for me, which nobody else need see. It would be such fun! Please do. I should think you would have hated staying at Cousin Olivia’s. When I read what she said about your travelling dresses looking as if they had come out of the Ark, I was too mad for any thing. But I shouldn’t think you’d want much to go back to school either, though sometimes it must be splendid. John has named her old stockinet doll, which she used to call ‘Scratch- face,’ ‘Nippy,’ after Mrs. Nipson; and I made her a muslin cap, and Dorry drew a pair of black spectacles round her eyes. She is a perfect fright, and John plays all the time that dreadful things happen to her. She pricks her with pins, and pretends she has the ear-ache, and lets her tumble down and hurt herself, till sometimes I nearly feel sorry, though it’s all make-believe. When you wrote us about only having pudding for dinner, I didn’t a bit. John put her into the rag-closet that very day, and has been starving her to death ever since, and Phil says it serves her right. You can’t think how awfully lonely I sometimes get without you. If it wasn’t for Helen Gibbs, that new girl I told you about, I shouldn’t know what to do. She is the prettiest girl in Miss McCrane’s school. Her hair curls just like mine, only it is four times as long and a million times as thick, and her waist is really and truly not much bigger round than a bed-post. We’re the greatest friends. She says she loves me just exactly as much as if I was her sister, but she never had any real sisters. She was quite mad the other day because I said I couldn’t love her quite so well as you and Katy; and all recess-time she wouldn’t speak to me, but now we’ve made up. Dorry is so awfully in love with her that I never can get him to come into the room when she is here, and he blushes when we tease him about her. But this is a great secret. Dorry and I play chess every evening. He almost always beats unless papa comes behind and helps me. Phil has learned too, because he always wants to do every thing that we do. Dorry gives him a castle, and a bishop, and a knight, and four pawns, and then beats him in six moves. Phil gets so mad that we can’t help laughing. Last night he buttoned his king up inside his jacket, and said, ‘There! you can’t checkmate me now, any way!’
“Cecy has come home. She is a young lady now. She does her hair up quite different, and wears long dresses. This winter she is going to parties, and Mrs. Hall is going to have a party for her on Thursday, with real, grown-up young ladies and gentlemen at it. Cecy has got some beautiful new dresses,—a white muslin, a blue tarlatan, and a pink silk. The pink silk is the prettiest, I think. Cecy is real kind, and lets me see all her things. She has got a lovely breast- pin too, and a new fan with ivory sticks, and all sorts of things. I wish I was grown up. It must be so nice. I was to tell you something, only you mustn’t tell any body except Katy. Don’t you remember how Cecy used to say that she never was going out to drive with young gentlemen, but was going to stay at home and read the Bible to poor people? Well, she didn’t tell the truth, for she has been out three times already with Sylvester Slack in his buggy. When I told her she oughtn’t to do so, because it was breaking a promise, she only laughed, and said I was a silly little girl. Isn’t it queer?
“I want to tell you what an awful thing I did the other night. Maria Avery invited me to tea, and papa said I might go. I didn’t want to much, but I didn’t know what to tell Maria, so I went. You know how poor they are, and how aunt Izzie used to say that they were ‘touchy,’ so I thought I would take great care not to hurry home right after tea, for fear they would think I wasn’t having a good time. So I waited, and waited, and waited, and got so sleepy that I had to pinch my fingers to keep awake. At last I was sure that it must be almost nine, so I asked Mr. Avery if he’d please take me home; and don’t you believe, when we got there, it was a quarter past ten, and papa was coming for me! Dorry said he guessed I must be enjoying myself to stay so late. I didn’t tell anybody about it for three days, because I knew they’d laugh at me, and they did. Wasn’t it funny? And old Mrs. Avery looked as sleepy as I felt, and kept yawning behind her hand. I told papa if I had a watch of my own I shouldn’t make such mistakes, and he laughed, and said, ‘We’ll see.’ Oh, do you suppose that means he’s going to give me one?
“We are so proud of Dorry’s having taken two prizes at the examination yesterday. He took the second Latin prize, and the first Mathematics. Dr. Pullman says he thinks Dorry is one of the most thorough boys he ever saw. Isn’t that nice? The prizes were books: one was the life of Benjamin Franklin, and the other the Life of General Butler. Papa says he doesn’t think much of the Life of Butler; but Dorry has begun it, and says it is splendid. Phil says when he takes a prize he wants candy and a new knife; but he’ll have to wait a good while unless he studies harder than he does now. He has just come in to tease me to go up into the garret and help him to get down his sled, because he thinks it is going to snow; but there isn’t a sign of it, and the weather is quite warm. I asked him what I should say for him to you, and he said, ‘Oh, tell her to come home, and any thing you please.’ I said, ‘Shall I give her your love, and say that you are very well?’ and he says, ‘Oh, yes, Miss Elsie, I guess you’d think yourself mighty well if your head ached as much as mine does every day.’ Don’t be frightened, however, for he’s just as fat and rosey as can be; but almost every day he says he feels sick about school-time. When papa was at Moorfield, Miss Finch believed him, and let him stay at home two mornings. I don’t wonder at it, for you can think what a face he makes up; but he got well so fast that she pays no attention to him now. The other day, about eleven o’clock, papa met him coming along the road, shying stones at the birds, and making lots of noise. He told papa he felt so sick that his teacher had let him go home; but papa noticed that his mouth looked sticky, so he opened his dinner- basket, and found that the little scamp had eaten up all his dinner on the road, corned beef, bread and butter, a great piece of mince pie, and six pears. Papa couldn’t help laughing, but he made him turn around and go right back to school again.
“I told you in my last about Johnnie’s going to school with me now. She is very proud of it, and is always talking about ‘Elsie’s and my school.’ She is twice as smart as the other girls of her age. Miss McCrane has put her into the composition class, where they write compositions on their slates. The first subject was, ‘A Kitten;’ and John’s began, ‘She’s a dear, little, soft scratching thing, only you’d better not pull her by the tail, but she’s real cunning.’ All the girls laughed, and Johnnie called out, ‘Well, it’s true, anyhow.’
“I can’t write any more, for I must study my Latin. Beside, this is the longest letter that ever was. I have been four days writing it. Please send me one just as long. Old Mary and the children send lots of love, and papa says, ‘Tell Katy if a pudding diet sets her to growing again she must come home at once, for he couldn’t afford it.’ Oh, dear, how I wish I could see you! Please give my love to Rose Red. She must be perfectly splendid. “Your affectionate Elsie.”
“Oh, the dear little duck! Isn’t that just like her?” said Clover. “I think Elsie has a real genius for writing, don’t you? She tells all the little things, and is so droll and cunning. Nobody writes such nice letters. Who’s that from, Katy?”
“Cousin Helen, and it’s been such a long time coming. Just look at this date! September 22, a whole month ago!” Then she began to read.
“Dear Katy,—It seems a long time since we have had a talk, but I have been less well lately, so that it has been difficult to write. Yesterday I sat up for the first time in several weeks, and to-day I am dressed and beginning to feel like myself. I wish you could see my room this morning,—I often wish this,—but it is so particularly pretty, for little Helen has been in with a great basket full of leaves and flowers, and together we have dressed it to perfection. There are four vases of roses,