And of course she
has her own little pen in a certain travelling-escritoire the good papa
has given her; and she plies her white fingers with it often and often
of an evening, after the day's sight-seeing is over, to tell Rose, in
return, what a charming journey she is having, and how kind papa is, and
what a world of strange things she is seeing; and there are descriptions
of sunsets and sunrises, and of lakes and of mountains, on those
close-written sheets of hers, which Rose, in her enthusiasm, declares to
be equal to many descriptions in print. We dare say they were better
than a great many such.
Poor Rose feels that she has only very humdrum stories to tell in return
for these; but she ekes out her letters pretty well, after all, and what
they lack in novelty is made up in affection.
"There is really nothing new to tell," she writes, "except it be that
our old friend, Miss Almira Tourtelot, astonished us all with a new
bonnet last Sunday, and with new saffron ribbons; and she has come out,
too, in the new tight sleeves, in which she looks drolly enough.
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