I received this morning a very beautiful and touching letter from a young lady in England about the Susy books.  They are associated in her mind and those of her family with a “Little Pearlie” whose cunning little photograph she enclosed, who taught herself to read in a fortnight from one of them, and was read to from it on her dying bed, and after she became speechless she made signs to have her head wet as Susy’s was.  I never received such a letter among all I have had.  Randolph sent me twelve copies of Stepping Heavenward, and I have had my hands full packing and sending them.  M. is reading aloud to H. a charming story called “Alone in London.”  I am sure I could not read it aloud without crying.

The following is the letter from England: 

To THE AUTHOR OF “LITTLE SUSY”: 

I feel as if I had a perfect right to call you “My dear friend,” so much have I thought of you this last year and a half.  Bear with me while I tell you why.  A year ago last Christmas we were a large family—­father, mother, and eight children, of whom I, who address you, am the eldest.  The youngest was of course the pet, our bright little darling, rather more than five.  That Christmas morning, of course, there were gifts for all; and among the treasures in the smallest stocking was a copy of “Little Susy’s Six Teachers,” for which I desire to thank you now.  Many times I have tried to do so, but I could not; the trouble which came upon us was too great and awful in its suddenness.  Little Pearl, so first called in the days of a fragile babyhood—­Dora Margaret was her real name—­taught herself to read from her “Little Susy,” during the first fortnight she had it.  And she would sit for hours, literally, amusing and interesting herself by it.  She talked constantly of the Six Teachers, and a word about them was enough to quell any rising naughtiness.  “Pearlie, what would Mr. Ought say?” or “Don’t grieve Mrs. Love,” was always sufficient.  Do you know what it is to have one the youngest in a large family?  My darling was seventeen years younger than I. I left school when she was born to take the oversight of the nursery, which dear mamma’s illness and always delicate health prevented her from doing.  I had nursed her in her illnesses, dressed her, made the little frocks—­now laid so sadly by—­and to all the rest of us she had been more like a child than a sister.  Friends used to say, “It is a wonder that child is not spoiled”; but they could never say she was.  Merry, full of life and fun she always was, quick and intelligent, full of droll sayings which recur to us now with such a pain.  From Christmas to the end of February we often remarked to one another how good that child was! laughing and playing from morning to night, yet never unruly or wild.  That February we had illness in the house.  Jessie, the next youngest, had diphtheria, but she recovered, and we trusted all danger was passed, when one Monday evening—­the