and I shall try to atone for it by giving you a minute
account of everybody here about whom you are interested. Our beloved
father and mother, I am thankful to say, are quite well. Papa has
taken more than ever to smoking since you went away. He is seldom out
of the summer-house in the garden now, where I very frequently go, and
spend hours together in reading to and talking with him. He very
often speaks of you, and I am certain that he misses you far more than
we expected, although I think he cannot miss you nearly so much as I
do. For some weeks past, indeed ever since we got your last letter,
papa was engaged all the forenoon in some mysterious work, for he used
to lock himself up in the summer-house--a thing he never did before.
One day I went there at my usual time, and instead of having to wait
till he should unlock the door, I found it already open, and entered
the room, which was so full of smoke that I could hardly see. I found
papa writing at a small table, and the moment he heard my footstep he
jumped up with a fierce frown and shouted, "Who's there?" in that
terrible voice that he used to speak in long ago when angry with his
men, but which he has almost quite given up for some time past. He
never speaks to me, as you know very well, but in the kindest tones,
so you may imagine what a dreadful fright I got for a moment; but it
was only for a moment, because the instant he saw that it was me his
dear face changed, and he folded me in his arms, saying, "Ah, Kate,
forgive me, my darling! I did not know it was you, and I thought I
had locked the door, and was angry at being so unceremoniously
interrupted." He then told me he was just finishing a letter of
advice to you, and going up to the table, pushed the papers hurriedly
into a drawer. As he did so I guessed what had been his mysterious
occupation, for he seemed to have covered _quires_ of paper with the
closest writing. Ah, Charley, you're a lucky fellow to be able to
extort such long letters from our dear father. You know how difficult
he finds it to write even the shortest note, and you remember his old
favourite expression, "I would rather skin a wild buffalo bull alive
than write a long letter." He deserves long ones in return, Charley;
but I need not urge you on that score--you are an excellent
correspondent. Mamma is able to go out every day now for a drive in
the prairi