ssive, sprawling, uncertain writing, two sentences to the page; a
violent slant in the second line, down right, balanced by a drastic
lessening of the letters, up right, in the line underneath; spelling not
as advised in the Century Dictionary--a letter from Robina, aged eight.
Robina's Aunt Evelyn, sitting in her dress and cap of a Red Cross nurse
in the big base hospital in Paris, read the wandering, painstaking, very
unsuccessful literary effort, laughing, half-crying, and kissed it
enthusiastically.

"The darling baby! She shall have her doll if it takes--" Aunt Evelyn
stopped thoughtfully.

It would take something serious to buy and equip the doll that Robina,
with eight-year-old definiteness, had specified. The girl in the Red
Cross dress read the letter over.

"Dear Aunt Evelyn," began Robina and struck no snags so far. "I liked
your postcard so much." (The facilis descensus to an averni of
literature began with a swoop down here.) "Mother is wel. Fother is wel.
The baby is wel. The dog has sevven kitens." (Robina robbed Peter to pay
Paul habitually in her spelling.) "Fother sais they lukk like choklit
eclares. I miss you, dere Aunt Evelyn, because I lov you sew. I hope
Santa Claus wil bring me a doll. I want a very bigg bride doll with a
vale and flours an a trunk of close, and all her under-close to buton
and unboton and to have pink ribons run into. I don't want anythig sode
on. Come home, Aunt Evelyn, becaus I miss you. But if the poor wundead
soljers ned you then don't come. But as soone as you can come to yure
loving own girl--ROBINA."

The dear angel! Every affectionate, labored word was from the warm
little heart; Evelyn Bruce knew that. She sat, smiling, holding the
paper against her, seeing a vision of the faraway, beloved child who
wrote it. She saw the dancing, happy brown eyes and the shining, cropped
head of pale golden brown, and the straight, strong little figure; she
heard the merry, ready giggle and the soft, slow tones that were always
full of love to her. Robina, her sister's child, her own god-daughter
had been her close friend from babyhood, and between them there was a
bond of understanding which made nothing of the difference in years.
Darling little Robina! Such a good, unspoiled little girl, for all of
the luxury and devotion that surrounded her!

But--there was a difficulty just there. Robina was unspoiled indeed,
yet, as the children of the very rich, she was, even at eight,
soph