DEAR SIR--(I would put "Publisher," but am not sure whether it
is spelt with a B or a P--in the middle, I mean.) The boys want
me to join in their protest, but you will excuse me, dear Sir.
And the reason is that I sleep in the same room with the
authoress. If you have any little girls, they will understand.
Yours Afftly,
MAID MARGARET.
Letter No. 4 Elizabeth Fortinbras's Letter.
DEAR SIR--There has been a good deal said about me in these
pages, perhaps more than I should have liked if the Editor had
given my real name. Of course Miss Sweetheart is far too loving
to set down anything untrue or unkind. Indeed, she has made me
out far better than I deserve, and has very kindly altered
relationships, so that nobody's feelings will be hurt. For they
will not know that it is they who are meant--I mean, not in my
own family.
Now, the Editor tells me that all the people who read the book
will be anxious to know what became of me--if I married, and
whom! I should be very glad indeed to satisfy the curiosity of
these good folk. I know what it is myself to glance over to the
last page of a book and see "if it happened all right."
But you see that I am still very happy at New Erin Villa, which
is no longer a "villa," but a proper shop, with a house at the
back big enough for us all to live happily in. We have a good
maid for the inside work, and I have added a special "icing"
department, where people can have their own home-made cakes
iced and fired. Besides, I give cookery lessons twice a week in
the evenings to all the mill-girls, and Polly Pretend comes
over to help me sometimes. Sweetheart, too, and Miss Davenant
Carter come when they can, and are a great encouragement.
I don't mean to say, like most girls, that I never will get
married. Perhaps I may, but it will be a very long time yet. I
am quite content as things are, and, most important of all, I
have yet to see the man I would freely marry darken the doors
of Erin Villa! All I want to say is that Sweetheart has seen me
and my doings through the sunlight of her own loving eyes--just
as Hugh John and I have often looked at the long lines of
cornstooks in the last rays of a September sun, and thought how
much the common hills and holms and cornlands of Edam gained by
the warm glow which caressed them. But how much the more I, who
sign myself