iety. She can find a pretext easily enough if she has
made up her mind to write. In fact, I doubt if she would trouble herself
for any pretext at all if she decided to write. Watch her well. Don't
let any letter go without seeing it, if you can help it."

Young women are much given to writing letters to persons whom they only
know indirectly, for the most part through their books, and especially
to romancers and poets. Nothing can be more innocent and simple-hearted
than most of these letters. They are the spontaneous outflow of young
hearts easily excited to gratitude for the pleasure which some story
or poem has given them, and recognizing their own thoughts, their own
feelings, in those expressed by the author, as if on purpose for them to
read. Undoubtedly they give great relief to solitary young persons, who
must have some ideal reflection of themselves, and know not where to
look since Protestantism has taken away the crucifix and the Madonna.
The recipient of these letters sometimes wonders, after reading through
one of them, how it is that his young correspondent has managed to fill
so much space with her simple message of admiration or of sympathy.

Lurida did not belong to this particular class of correspondents,
but she could not resist the law of her sex, whose thoughts naturally
surround themselves with superabundant drapery of language, as their
persons float in a wide superfluity of woven tissues. Was she indeed
writing to this unknown gentleman? Euthymia questioned her point-blank.

"Are you going to open a correspondence with Mr. Maurice Kirkwood,
Lurida? You seem to be so busy writing, I can think of nothing else. Or
are you going to write a novel, or a paper for the Society,--do tell me
what you are so much taken up with."

"I will tell you, Euthymia, if you will promise not to find fault with
me for carrying out my plan as I have made up my mind to do. You may
read this letter before I seal it, and if you find anything in it you
don't like you can suggest any change that you think will improve it. I
hope you will see that it explains itself. I don't believe that you will
find anything to frighten you in it."

This is the letter, as submitted to Miss Tower by her friend. The bold
handwriting made it look like a man's letter, and gave it consequently
a less dangerous expression than that which belongs to the tinted and
often fragrant sheet with its delicate thready characters, which slant
across th