he is such a good child: there's
never a drop of bad blood in his heart; and now for love of me he's
going to be a clergyman, when his heart clings to the world; and surely
it's a great sin."

"Why, that's dreadful! Why, I wouldn't have a moment's peace. I'd make
up my mind to set matters right immediately."

"Yes, but how? You see, I should like to tell him so, and unbeknown to
him," (meaning her husband.) "I don't want to trust all this to the
schoolmaster; and yet I can't write myself any more."

"Easy enough to help that. I'll write. I can write very well, and you
can dictate to me."

"Yes, that's true: I never thought of that. You're a good child. Come;
we'll set about it directly."

But another trouble soon arose, for nowhere was a pen to be found.
Emmerence was ready to go to the schoolmaster to have one made and tell
the schoolmaster's wife some story or other, if she asked questions;
but Christina would not consent. "We can't begin with sinning," she
said. With the same answer she dismissed Emmerence's second proposal,
to steal one of the schoolmaster's pens, as she knew exactly where he
kept them, and put a dozen fresh quills in its place. At length
Emmerence cried, getting up, "I know where to get one. My sister's boy,
Charlie, goes to school, and has pens; and he must give me one."

She soon returned in triumph, with a pen in her hand. Sitting down at
the table, she drew up the wick of the lamp with a pin, squared herself
to begin, and said, "Now dictate, aunty."

Ivo's mother sat behind the table in the corner under the crucifix, and
tried to peel an additional potato. She said,--

"Write 'Dear Ivo.' 'Got that?"

"Yes."

"'I'm thinking of you now. Not an hour and not a day passes but I think
of you; and at night, when I lie awake in bed, my thoughts are with
you, dear Ivo.'"

"Not so fast, or I can't get it down," clamored poor Emmerence. She
raised her blushing face, looked into the light, and gnawed her pen.
These were the very words she would have written had she penned the
letter in her own name. Laying her face almost on a level with the
paper, she now began to write, and at last said, "'Dear Ivo.' Go on."

"No; first read to me what you have written."

Emmerence did so.

"That's right. Now write again, 'I am not quite easy about your having
changed your mind so quickly'--Stop! don't write that: that's not a
good way to begin."

Emmerence rested her chin on her hand and waited. But