“Burn this letter, and show the other to M.
“Dear Midgetina—Don’t suppose, because I have not written, that Fanny is a monster, though, in fact, she is. I have often thought of you—with your stars and knickknacks. And of course your letters have come. My thanks. I can’t really answer them now because I am trying at the same time to scribble this note and to correct ‘composition’ papers under the very eyes of Miss Stebbings—the abhorred daughter of Argus and the eldest Gorgon. Dear me, I almost envy you, Midgetina. It must be fun to be like a tiny, round-headed pin in a pincushion and just mock at the Workbox. But all things in moderation.
“When the full moon came last I remembered our vow. She was so dazzling, poor old wreck. And I wondered, as I blinked up at her, if you would not some day vanish away altogether—unless you make a fortune by being looked at. I wish I could. Only would they pay enough? That is the question.
“What I am writing about now is not the moon, but—don’t be amused!—a Man. Not Monsieur Crapaud, who is more absurd than ever; but someone you know, Mr. Crimble. He has sent me the most alarming letter and wants me to marry him. It is not for the first time of asking, but still a solemn occasion. Mother once said that he was like a coquette—all attention and no intention. Sad to say, it is the other way round. M., you see, always judges by what she fears. I by what this Heart tells me.
“Now I daren’t write back to him direct (a) because I wish just now to say neither Yes nor No; (b) because a little delay will benefit his family pride; (c) because it is safer not to—he’s very careless and I might soon want to change my mind; (d) because that’s how my fancy takes me; and (e) because I love you exceedingly and know you will help me.
“When no answer comes to his letter, he will probably dare another pilgrimage to Beechwood Hill, if only to make sure that I am not in my grave. So I want you to tell him secretly that I have received his letter and that I am giving it my earnest attention—let alone my prayers. Tell me exactly how he takes this answer; then I will write to you again. I am sure, Midgetina, in some previous life you must have lived in the tiny rooms in the Palace at Mantua—you are a born intrigante.
“In my bedroom, 11 p.m.—A scheme is in my mind, but it is not yet in bloom, and you may infer from all this that I don’t care. Often I wish this were so. I sat in front of my eight inches of grained looking-glass last night till it seemed some god(dess) must intervene. But no. My head was dark and empty. I could hear Mr. Oliphant cajoling with his violin in the distance—as if music had charms. Oh, dear, they give you life, and leave you to ask, Why. You seem to be perfectly contented in your queer little prim way with merely asking. But Fanny Bowater wants an answer, or she will make one up. Meanwhile, search for a scrap of magic mushroom, little sister, and come nearer! Some day I will tell you even more about myself! Meanwhile, believe me, petitissimost M., your affec.—F.
Fanny’s “other” was more brief:—
“Dear Midgetina—It is delightful to have your letters, and I am ashamed of myself for not answering them before. But I will do so the very moment there is a free hour. Would you please ask mother with my love to send me some handkerchiefs, some stockings, and some soap? My first are worn with weeping, my second with sitting still, and my third is mottled—and similarly affects the complexion. But Easter draws near, and I am sure I must long to be home. Did you tell mother by any chance of your midnight astronomy lesson? It has been most useful when all other baits and threats have failed to teach the young idea how to shoot. Truly a poet’s way of putting it. Is Mr. Crimble still visiting his charming parishioner?
Slowly, self-conscious word by word, lingering here and there, I read these letters through—then through again. Then I lifted my eyes and stared for a while over my left shoulder at empty Wanderslore. A medley of emotions strove for mastery, and as if to reassure herself the “tiny, round-headed pin” kissed the signature, whispering languishingly to herself in the great garden: “I love you exceedingly. Oh, Fanny, I love you exceedingly,” and hid her eyes in her hands. The notepaper was very faintly scented. My imagination wandered off I know not where; and returned, elated and dejected. Which the more I know not. Then I folded up the secret letter into as small a compass as I could, dragged back a loose, flat stone, hid it away in the dry crevice beneath, and replaced the stone. The other I put into my silk bag.
I emerged from these labours to see in my mind Mrs. Bowater steadfastly
