front of me lay his album. I opened it and found in it a picture of him as a little boy of six. I took it out, playing with it like a little girl plays with a doll. I laid it on my heart, I kissed it, and called it tender names, and while the tears were running from my silly eyes, blotting out the picture, I said, that now we two had to keep close together, now he had left us.
I sat there until the maid came in, and in astonishment said: 'Good heavens, miss, are you still here?'
I was also astonished at her sudden entrance. I got up quickly and left, but the little picture I put in my pocket.
THIS morning morning I went to the post-office and fetched the following poste-restante letter: —
'Dearest Child,—Do you know that you spoil me, and that I have not in the least deserved it. When on my arrival I was received by your dear, far too dear, letter it made me both happy and ashamed. I am—and this is no phrase—quite unable to return your goodness. I am especially a very poor letter-writer, while you, like so many women, are a master in the art of sending yourself in an envelope. I assure you that when I opened your letter, it was exactly as if my Julie sprang alive out into the room, threw her arms round my neck and told me a lot of delightful things.
