Young women are much given to writing letters to persons whom they only
know indirectly, for the most part through their books, and especially to
romancers and poets. Nothing can be more innocent and simple-hearted
than most of these letters. They are the spontaneous outflow of young
hearts easily excited to gratitude for the pleasure which some story or
poem has given them, and recognizing their own thoughts, their own
feelings, in those expressed by the author, as if on purpose for them to
read. Undoubtedly they give great relief to solitary young persons, who
must have some ideal reflection of themselves, and know not where to look
since Protestantism has taken away the crucifix and the Madonna. The
recipient of these letters sometimes wonders, after reading through one
of them, how it is that his young correspondent has managed to fill so
much space with her simple message of admiration or of sympathy.

Lurida did not belong to this particular class of correspondents, but she
could not resist the law of her sex, whose thoughts naturally surround
themselves with superabundant drapery of language, as their persons float
in a wide superfluity of woven tissues. Was she indeed writing to this
unknown gentleman? Euthymia questioned her point-blank.

"Are you going to open a correspondence with Mr. Maurice Kirkwood,
Lurida? You seem to be so busy writing, I can think of nothing else. Or
are you going to write a novel, or a paper for the Society,--do tell me
what you are so much taken up with."

"I will tell you, Euthymia, if you will promise not to find fault with me
for carrying out my plan as I have made up my mind to do. You may read
this letter before I seal it, and if you find anything in it you don't
like you can suggest any change that you think will improve it. I hope
you will see that it explains itself. I don't believe that you will find
anything to frighten you in it."

This is the letter, as submitted to Miss Tower by her friend. The bold
handwriting made it look like a man's letter, and gave it consequently a
less dangerous expression than that which belongs to the tinted and often
fragrant sheet with its delicate thready characters, which slant across
the page like an April shower with a south wind chasing it.

ARROWHEAD VILLAGE, August--, 18--.

MY DEAR SIR,--You will doubtless be surprised at the sight of a letter
like this from one whom you only know as the Secretary of the Pansophian
Society. There i