earance, dress,
character, position, prospects,--a full, if not perfectly complete,
history of her relations with them that almost made Ethel's lower jaw drop
as she listened. There was no mention of mother, aunt, governess, or maid
throughout. Bijou had gone away from home with friends who had let her
amuse herself in her own fashion; and at home she was what De Tocqueville
has pronounced "the freest thing in the world,--an American girl in her
father's house." Yet it was a liberty that was worlds removed from
license. Undisciplined she was, impulsive, indulged beyond all European
conceptions, but, in spite of a good deal of innocent coquetry and vanity,
effervescing in some foolish ways very pardonable in a motherless girl,
and of which a great deal too much has been made in discussing American
girls, there was never one of any nation more pure-hearted and womanly.
Her worst deviations from rigidly conventional standards were better than
the best behavior of some very nice people, as Swift defines them,--"Nice
people: people who are always thinking of and looking out for nasty
things." Different training would have improved her, just as a hot-house
rose is more perfect than the wild one; but she, too, was pink-petalled,
had a heart of gold, and was full of lovely, fragrant qualities, like the
English variety near her.

"You correspond with twelve men! Good heavens!" exclaimed Ethel, when
these open secrets had been revealed to her. "Don't tell auntie of it, I
beg. She will--will misunderstand, I fear, and think it dreadful, and
perhaps prevent me being here so much. It is not at all in accord with
English ideas, you know, dear; and auntie is rather stricter than most,
even there."

"Not tell! Why not?" asked Bijou. "What is there to shock her? She must be
easily shocked. I have got nothing to be ashamed of; and I shall tell the
old dear to-morrow."

"Does your father know it?" said Ethel.

"Why, _of course_ he does," replied Bijou impatiently. "I generally read
him the letters, and he laughs fit to kill himself over some of them.
Popper don't care one bit. He says I am old enough to paddle my own canoe;
and so I am. And he knows I don't care a pin about any of them. It's great
fun until you get tired of it. I am tired of it now, rather. I used to
write to twenty; but it has dwindled down to twelve, and I'm going to drop
two of those, because they are in the army and are both stationed at the
same post. You see, it