Months passed away, and Miss Pritty, sitting in her little boudoir
sipping a cup of that which cheers, received a letter.
"I know that hand, of course I do. How strange it is there should be
such a variety of hands--no two alike, just like faces; though for my
part I think that some faces are quite alike, so much so that there are
one or two people who are always mistaken for each other, so that people
don't know which is which. Dear me! What an awful thing it would be if
these people were so like that each should forget which was the other!
Nobody else being able to put them right, there would be irretrievable
confusion. What do you want, eh?"
The first part of Miss Pritty's mutterances was a soliloquy; the query
was addressed to her small and only domestic with the dishevelled head,
who lingered at the door from motives of curiosity.
"Nothink, ma'am. Do you wish me to wait, ma'am?"
"No;--go."
She went, and Miss Pritty, opening the letter, exclaimed, "From my
nephew, Edgar! I knew it. Dear fellow! I wonder why he writes to me."