"Me, child?" said her mother. "I have n't written a letter for ten years; I could n't write; but I think you ought to. He might be a waitin to hear; sick folks think a heap of little things like that."
"Well, I might just write and say I 'd got the letter," said Tilly. "’T was real pleasant in him to send me the message."
"Yes," said Captain Lisha. "That fellow 's got right feelings. I tell you that."
Tilly carried the letter into her little bedroom and stuck it into the looking-glass frame, as she had seen cards placed.
The next morning her mother said:—
"Now, Tilly, I 'd answer that letter if I was you. It is n't often we get a chance to hear anything from the rest o' the world. I wish you 'd write. Besides," she added, "after sending him your name so, it don't seem friendly not to."
"That 's true, mother," said Tilly. "I never thought of that, and I' d just as lieves write as not, if I could think of anything to say."
That evening after all the work was done, the little kitchen in order, the lamps lighted, the big one for the great, wandering ships at sea, and the little one for the quiet, humble family at home, Tilly took out a small papeterie of dark-blue embossed leather, and, opening it with a sigh, said:—
"I 'll try to write that letter now, mother."
"That 's right," said her mother. "I 'd write if I was you."
