will write far better letters than I can." "It will be a Heaven-born gift, then," returned Zillah, laughing, "as I never wrote a letter in my life." "That is nothing," said Hilda. "I write for another; but you will be writing for yourself, and that makes all the difference in the world, you know." "Well, perhaps so. You see, Hilda, I have taken a fancy to try my hand at it," said Zillah, laughingly, full of delight at the ease with which she had gained her desire. "You see," she went on, with unusual sprightliness of manner, "I got hold of a 'Complete Letter-Writer' this morning; and the beauty, elegance, and even eloquence of those amazing compositions have so excited me that I want to emulate them. Now it happens that Guy is the only correspondent that I have, and so he must be my first victim." So saying, Zillah laughingly opened her desk, while Hilda's dark eyes regarded her with sharp and eager watchfulness. "You must not make it too eloquent, dear," said she. "Remember the very commonplace epistles that you have been giving forth in your name." "Don't be alarmed," said Zillah. "If it is not exactly like a child's first composition we shall all have great cause for thankfulness." So saying, she took out a sheet of paper. "Here," said she, "is an opportunity of using some of this elaborately monogrammed paper which poor darling papa got for me, because I wanted to see how they could work my unpromising 'Z' into a respectable cipher. They have made it utterly illegible, and I believe that is the great point to be attained." Thus rattling on, she dated her letter, and began to write. She wrote as far as "MY DEAR GUY"--Then she stopped, and read it aloud.--"This is really getting most exciting," she said, in high good-humor. "Now what comes next? To find a beginning--there's the rub. I must turn to my 'Complete Letter-Writer.' Let me see. '_Letter from a Son at School_'--that won't do. '_From a Lady to a Lover returning a Miniature_--nor that. '_From a Suitor requesting to be allowed to pay his attentions to a Lady_'--worse and worse. '_From a Father declining the application of a Suitor for his Daughter's hand_'--absurd! Oh, here we are--'_From a Wife to a Husband who is absent on urgent business_.' Oh, listen, Hilda!" and Zillah read: "'_BELOVED AND HONORED HUSBAND,--The grief which wrung my heart at your departure has been mitigated by the delight which I experienced at the receipt of your most welcome letters_.' Isn't that delightful? Unluckily his departure didn't wring my heart at all, and, worse still, I have no grief at his absence to be mitigated by his letters. Alas! I'm afraid mine must be an exceptional case, for even my 'Complete Letter-Writer,' my vade-mecum, which goes into such charming details, can not help me. After all I suppose I must use my own poor brains." After all this nonsense Zillah suddenly grew serious. Hilda seemed to understand the cause of her extravagant volatility, and watched her closely. Zillah began to write, and went on rapidly, without a moment's hesitation; without any signs whatever of that childish inexperience at which she had hinted. Her pen flew over the paper with a speed which seemed to show that she had plenty to say, and knew perfectly well how to say it. So she went on until she had filled two pages, and was proceeding to the third. Then an exclamation from Hilda caused her to look up. "My dear Zillah," cried Hilda, who was sitting in a chair a little behind her, "what in the world are you thinking of? From this distance I can distinguish your somewhat peculiar caligraphy--with its bold down strokes and decided 'character,' that people talk about. Now, as you know that I write a little, cramped, German hand, you will have to imitate my humble handwriting, or else I'm afraid Captain Molyneux will be thoroughly puzzled--unless, indeed, you tell him that you have been employing an amanuensis. That will require a good deal of explanation, but--" she added, after a thoughtful pause, "I dare say it will be the best in the end." At these words Zillah started, dropped her pen, and sat looking at Hilda perfectly aghast. "I never thought of that," she murmured, and sat with an expression of the deepest dejection. At length a long sigh escaped her. "You are right, Hilda," she said. "Of course it will need explanation; but how is it possible to do that in a letter? It can't be done. At least I can't do it. What shall I do?" She was silent, and sat for a long time, looking deeply vexed and disappointed. "Of course," she said at last, "he will have to know all when he comes back; but that is nothing. How utterly stupid it was in me not to think of the difference in our writing! And now I suppose I must give up my idea of writing a letter. It is really hard--I have not a single correspondent." Her deep disappointment, her vexation, and her feeble attempt to conceal her emotions, were not lost upon the watchful Hilda. But the latter showed no signs that she had noticed any thing. "Oh, don't give it up!" she answered, with apparent eagerness. "I dare say you can copy my hand accurately enough to avoid detection. Here is a note I wrote yesterday. See if you can't imitate that, and make your writing as like mine as possible." So saying she drew a note from her pocket and handed it to Zillah. The other took it eagerly, and began to try to imitate it, but a few strokes showed her the utter impossibility of such an undertaking. She threw down the pen, and leaning her head upon her hand, sat looking upon the floor in deeper dejection than ever. "I can't copy such horrid cramped letters," she said, pettishly; "why should you write such a hand? Besides, I feel as if I were really forging, or doing something dreadful. I suppose," she added, with unconcealed bitterness of tone, "we shall have to go on as we began, and you must be _Zillah Molyneux_ for some time longer." Hilda laughed. "Talk of forging!" she said. "What is forging if that is not? But really, Zillah, darling, you seem to me to show more feeling about this than I ever supposed you could possibly be capable of. Are you aware that your tone is somewhat bitter, and that if I were sensitive I might feel hurt? Do you mean by what you said to lay any blame to me?" She spoke so sadly and reproachfully that Zillah's heart smote her. At once her disappointment and vexation vanished at the thought that she had spoken unkindly to her friend. "Hilda!" she cried, "you can not think that I am capable of such ingratitude. You have most generously given me your services all this time. You have been right, from the very first, and I have been wrong. You have taken a world of trouble to obviate the difficulties which my own obstinacy and temper have caused. If any trouble could possibly arise, I only could be to blame. But, after all, none can arise. I'm sure Captain Molyneux will very readily believe that I disliked him too much when he first went away to dream of writing to him. He certainly had every reason for thinking so." "Shall you tell him that?" said Hilda, mildly, without referring to Zillah's apologies. "Certainly I shall," said Zillah, "if the opportunity ever arises. The simple truth is always the easiest and the best. I think he is already as well aware as he can be of that fact; and, after all, why should I, or how could I, have liked him under the circumstances? I knew nothing of him whatever; and every thing--yes, every thing, was against him." "You know no more of him now," said Hilda; "and yet, though you are very reticent on the subject, I have a shrewd suspicion, my darling, that you do not dislike him." As she spoke she looked earnestly at Zillah as if to read her inmost soul. Zillah was conscious of that sharp, close scrutiny, and blushed crimson, as this question which thus concerned her most sacred feelings was brought home to her so suddenly. But she answered, as lightly as she could: "How can you say that, or even hint at it? How absurd you are, Hilda! I know no more of him now than I knew before. Of course I hear very much about him at Chetwynde, but what of that? He certainly pervades the whole atmosphere of the house. The one idea of Lord Chetwynde is Guy; and as for Mrs. Hart, I think if he wished to use her for a target she would be delighted. Death at such hands would be bliss to her. She treasures up every word he has ever spoken, from his earliest infancy to the present day." "And I suppose that is enough to account for the charm which you seem to find in her society," rejoined Hilda. "It has rather puzzled me, I confess. For my own part I have never been able to break through the reserve which she chooses to throw around her. I can not get beyond the barest civilities with her, though I'm sure I've tried to win her good-will more than I ever tried before, which is rather strange, for, after all, there is no reason whatever why I should try any thing of the kind. She seems to have a very odd kind of feeling toward me. She looks at me sometimes so strangely that she positively gives me an uncomfortable feeling. She seems frightened to death if my dress brushes against hers. She shrinks away. I believe she is not sane. In fact, I'm sure of it." "Poor old Mrs. Hart!" said Zillah. "I suppose she does seem a little odd to you; but I know her well, and I assure you she is as far removed from insanity as I am. Still she is undoubtedly queer. Do you know, Hilda, she seems to me to have had some terrible sorrow which has crushed all her spirit and almost her very life. I have no idea whatever of her past life. She is very reticent. She never even so much as hints at it." "I dare say she has very good reasons," interrupted Hilda. "Don't talk that way about her, dear Hilda. You are too ill-natured, and I can't bear to have ill-natured things said about the dear old thing. You don't know her as I do, or you would never
