d
eyes that always seemed young; and she would say: "That's just as David
used to do."

Then Marcia drew up the little mahogany stool covered with the worsted dog
which Aunt Clarinda had worked when she was ten years old, and snuggling
down at the old lady's feet exclaimed delightedly: "Tell me about it!" and
they settled down to solid comfort.

There came a letter from David after he had been gone a little over a
week. Marcia had not expected to hear from him. He had said nothing about
writing, and their relations were scarcely such as to make it necessary.
Letters were an expensive luxury in those days. But when the letter was
handed to her, Marcia's heart went pounding against her breast, the color
flew into her cheeks, and she sped away home on feet swift as the wings of
a bird. The postmaster's daughter looked after her, and remarked to her
father: "My, but don't she think a lot of him!"

Straight to the cold, lonely house she flew, and sitting down in his big
chair read it.

It was a pleasant letter, beginning formally: "My dear Marcia," and asking
after her health. It brought back a little of the unacquaintedness she had
felt when he was at home, and which had been swept away in part by her
knowledge of his childhood. But it went on quite happily telling all about
his journey and describing minutely the places he had passed through and
the people he had met on the way; detailing every little incident as only
a born writer and observer could do, until she felt as if he were talking
to her. He told her of the men whom he had met who were interested in the
new project. He told of new plans and described minutely his visit to the
foundry at West Point and the machinery he had seen. Marcia read it all
breathlessly, in search of something, she knew not what, that was not
there. When she had finished and found it not, there was a sense of
aloofness, a sad little disappointment which welled up in her throat. She
sat back to think about it. He was having a good time, and he was not
lonely. He had no longing to be back in the house and everything running
as before he had gone. He was out in the big glorious world having to do
with progress, and coming in contact with men who were making history. Of
course he did not dream how lonely she was here, and how she longed, if
for nothing else, just to be back here alone and do as she pleased, and
not to be watched over. If only she might steal Aunt Clarinda and bring
her back