ry kind.

"The ill husband of Cousin Teresa who went with us to Meran and lost her
umbrella and Dr. Edmund was so sorry about it, has been very much worse,
so she is not here but in Baden. I wrote to her but have no news, so I
do not know whether he is still living or not, at any rate he can't get
well again so soon (and I don't think he ever shall). I think as the
weather is very warm you and Uncle Nic are sitting much out of doors. I
am sending presents to you all in a wooden box and screwed very firm,
so you shall have to use again the big screw-driver of Fritz. For Aunt
Constance, photographs; for Uncle Nic, a green bird on a stand with a
hole in the back of the bird to put his ashes in; it is a good green and
not expensif please tell him, because he does not like expensif presents
(Miss Naylor says the bird has an inquiring eye--it is a parrat); for
you, a little brooch of turquoise because I like them best; for Dr.
Edmund a machine to weigh medicines in because he said he could not get
a good one in Botzen; this is a very good one, the shopman told me so,
and is the most expensif of all the presents--so that is all my money,
except two gulden. If Papa shall give me some more, I shall buy for
Miss Naylor a parasol, because it is useful and the handle of hers is
'wobbley' (that is one of Dr. Edmund's words and I like it).

"Good-bye for this time. Greta sends you her kiss.

"P. S.--Miss Naylor has read all this letter (except about the parasol)
and there are several things she did not want me to put, so I have
copied it without the things, but at the last I have kept that copy
myself, so that is why this is smudgy and several words are not spelt
well, but all the things are here."

Christian read, smiling, but to finish it was like dropping a talisman,
and her face clouded. A sudden draught blew her hair about, and from
within, Mr. Treffry's cough mingled with the soughing of the wind;
the sky was fast blackening. She went indoors, took a pen and began to
write:

"MY FRIEND,--Why haven't you written to me? It is so, long to wait.
Uncle says you are in Italy--it is dreadful not to know for certain. I
feel you would have written if you could; and I can't help thinking of
all the things that may have happened. I am unhappy. Uncle Nic is ill;
he will not confess it, that is his way; but he is very ill. Though
perhaps you will never see this, I must write down all my thoughts.
Sometimes I feel that I am brutal to be