d,"
Mrs. Hopkins said the first time he did so. He looks so savage with that
scowl of his, and talks so gruff when he is scolding at things in
general, that nobody would have believed he would have let such little
things come anywhere near him. But he seems to be growing kind to all of
us and everybody. I saw him talking to the Fire-hang-bird the other day.
You know who the Fire-hang-bird is, don't you? Myrtle Hazard her name
is. I wish you could see her. I don't know as I do, though. You would
want to make a statue of her, or a painting, I know. She is so handsome
that all the young men stand round to see her come out of meeting. Some
say that Lawyer Bradshaw is after her; but my! he is ten years older than
she is. She is nothing but a girl, though she looks as if she was
eighteen. She lives up at a place called The Poplars, with an old woman
that is her aunt or something, and nobody seems to be much acquainted
with her except Olive Eveleth, who is the minister's daughter at Saint
Bartholomew's Church. She never has beauxs round her, as some young
girls do--they say that she is not happy with her aunt and another woman
that stays with her, and that is the reason she keeps so much to herself.
The minister came to see me the other day,--Mr. Stoker his name is. I
was all alone, and it frightened me, for he looks, oh, so solemn on
Sundays! But he called me "My dear," and did n't say anything horrid,
you know, about my being such a dreadful, dreadful sinner, as I have
heard of his saying to some people,--but he looked very kindly at me, and
took my hand, and laid his hand on my shoulder like a brother, and hoped
I would come and see him in his study. I suppose I must go, but I don't
want to. I don't seem to like him exactly.

I hope you love me as well as ever you did. I can't help feeling
sometimes as if you was growing away from me,--you know what I
mean,--getting to be too great a person for such a small person as I am.

I know I can't always understand you when you talk about art, and that
you know a great deal too much for such a simple girl as I am. Oh, if I
thought I could never make you happy!... There, now! I am almost
ashamed to send this paper so spotted. Gifted Hopkins wrote some
beautiful verses one day on "A Maiden Weeping." He compared the tears
falling from her eyes to the drops of dew which one often sees upon the
flowers in the morning. Is n't it a pretty thought?

I wish I loved art