even get
through the first line to her satisfaction. The next morning she sat
down again. It would be so unkind if she did not answer immediately: she
must answer. She placed his letter before her--she resolutely began.
But copy after copy was made and torn. And Simon wanted her--and Sarah
wanted her--and there were bills to be paid; and dinner was over before
her task was really begun. But after dinner she began in good earnest.

"How kind in you to write to me" (the difficulty of any name was
dispensed with by adopting none), "and to wish to know about my dear
grandfather! He is much the same, but hardly ever walks out now, and I
have had a good deal of time to myself. I think something will surprise
you, and make you smile, as you used to do at first, when you come
back. You must not be angry with me that I have gone out by myself very
often--every day, indeed. I have been so safe. Nobody has ever offered
to be rude again to Fanny" (the word "Fanny" was carefully scratched out
with a penknife, and me substituted). "But you shall know all when you
come. And are you sure you are well--quite--quite well? Do you never
have the headaches you complained of sometimes? Do say this? Do you walk
out-every day? Is there any pretty churchyard near you now? Whom do you
walk with?

"I have been so happy in putting the flowers on the two graves. But I
still give yours the prettiest, though the other is so dear to me. I
feel sad when I come to the last, but not when I look at the one I have
looked at so long. Oh, how good you were! But you don't like me to thank
you."

"This is very stupid!" cried Fanny, suddenly throwing down her pen; "and
I don't think I am improved at it;" and she half cried with vexation.
Suddenly a bright idea crossed her. In the little parlour where the
schoolmistress privately received her, she had seen among the books,
and thought at the time how useful it might be to her if ever she had to
write to Philip, a little volume entitled, The Complete Letter
Writer. She knew by the title-page that it contained models for every
description of letter--no doubt it would contain the precise thing that
would suit the present occasion. She started up at the notion. She would
go--she could be back to finish the letter before post-time. She put on
her bonnet--left the letter, in her haste, open on the table--and just
looking into the parlour in her way to the street door, to convince
herself that Simon was asleep, and