Part 38 (1/2)
”True,” said Katharine thoughtfully; ”and I don't know what we should have done this summer, Jessie, if we hadn't had those lessons in cooking. I had no idea then that we shouldn't always have servants, and if we'd stayed here, we never should have known anything about housekeeping. And the worst of it is, I like it. I always knew I had plebeian tastes and, now I am used to it, I fairly revel in was.h.i.+ng dishes.”
”I'm not half so homesick for the old house as I thought I should be,” said Jessie, while she meditatively folded a series of tucks in her gingham ap.r.o.n. ”It was dreadful at first, having to leave the old place and the servants and the furniture; but, after all, we haven't had such a bad time. I don't know as I want to do housework for a living, I prefer medicine; but I don't mind it a bit, for a while. If I'm to keep old maid's hall, I want to know how to do it.”
”Yes; but we can't go on like this much longer, Jessie,” her sister replied. ”I was talking about it to mamma, only a few days ago. We must try to get a young girl to help about the house, for it is settled that you are to go back into school after Christmas.”
”' Sufficient unto the day,'” said Jessie, laughing. ”You know I'd much rather stay at home and help you than go back to school. Why must I go, any more than you?”
”I was supposed to be finished last year, ready to come out,”
answered Katharine; ”and so I ought to be finished enough to stay in. But when we get settled down for the winter, I mean to go on and do a little studying by myself, history or something. I don't know yet just what it will be. You've had a hard summer and fall, Jessie,” she added, surveying her sister with a motherly air; ”but you've gone through it splendidly, and I'm proud of you.”
”It's no harder for me than for you,” responded Jessie st.u.r.dily; ”and it hasn't made half the difference in my plans. But there are times, Kit, when I do feel as if I must see papa again.”
”I don't dare let myself think about him much,” said Katharine slowly. ”It is one of the things we can't undo, and must take as they come.” She was silent for a few moments, then added, with an evident effort to turn the conversation, ”Here comes the postman.
I don't suppose he has anything for us, though.”
”Maybe he has,” answered Jessie hopefully. ”It is ever and ever so long since we heard from any of the girls.”
The sisters sat watching the man as he came slowly down the street, stopping here and there to leave a part of his precious burden.
”Don't you ever wish you could know just what is in all those letters?” asked Jessie, as she rested her chin in her hands.
”No, I don't know as I do,” replied Katharine. ”If it were all funny or interesting, it would be well enough; but think of all the letters that have sad or ugly things to tell. I do wish he would bring us one, though.”
”Perhaps he will. Yes, he's going to!” And Jessie sprang down the steps to meet the man, who paused long enough to hand her a thick envelope, and then went on out of sight, quite disregarded by the girls who were all-absorbed in their mail.
”It's yours,” said Jessie, as she deliberately mounted the steps once more; ”but I can't make out whose writing it is. Part of it looks like Alan's, and part like Polly's. It's from some of them, anyway. Do see if you can make it out.” And she tossed the envelope into her sister's lap.
No true woman ever opens a letter to find out from whom it comes.
Katharine carefully and minutely studied the one in her hand, without attempting to resort to the most natural method of obtaining an answer to the question. At length she raised her head with a laugh.
”It's from them all,” she said. ”Polly wrote my name, Molly the city, and Alan the state. This is one of that boy's pranks.”
”Do hurry to open it,” said Jessie impatiently.
Katharine recklessly tore it open and' drew out four separate sheets.
”I told you so,” she said triumphantly. ”And one from Mrs. Adams, too! Which shall I take first? None of them are very long.”
”Begin with Molly,” said Jessie, settling herself comfortably to listen while her sister read,-
”DEAR KATHARINE AND JESSIE,--I haven't any idea who owes the other a letter, but I am getting so homesick for you that I shall write to you anyway. It isn't that I have much to say, for it does seem as if nothing had happened since you left here. I wrote you, didn't I, that the Langs have all gone abroad for a year? Only half of us left here, now! I miss Florence, and I rather envy her; but, after all, my first journey is going to be to Omaha. Jean and Polly and I are here, just the same as ever, only Jean is getting dignified and doesn't walk fences, any longer. But you have no idea how proud we are of Polly. She had the dearest little poem in the school paper last month; and this month she is to be editor, the first time a girl has ever done it. She and Alan are writing, too. They came in and found out what I was doing, so they said they were each going to put in a note. I don't think it is quite fair, for I know they will tell you all the news.
”You ought to have seen the new clothes Florence had, before she went away. I went there once to see them, and it was like a whole dry-goods store. She sent for Bridget, one day, and gave her ever so many of her old things, to be made over for the children; and Bridget went off hugging the great bundle and crying because she was 'afraid Miss Florence would get drownded on the way.'
”Polly has just showed me what she has been writing about Aunt Jane. I do wish you could be here for the wedding. I think Job almost ought to march in the bridal party, for he helped Mr.
Baxter to get ready for a second marriage.
”Mrs. Adams has just come in, and wants my pen to write a little note while she waits for mamma to get ready to go out with her, so I'm not going to write another single word till I hear from you.
Answer this soon, like dear girls. Mamma would send love, if she knew I was writing.