You have no mother, and your father, you say, absorbed in business, like so many American fathers, seems almost a stranger.  Even the most devoted fathers, rarely understand their daughters.

Now, I want to take the part of a mother and write you to-day, as I would write my own daughter, had one been bestowed upon me with the many other blessings which are mine.

I could not ask for a fairer, more amiable, or brighter daughter than you, nor one possessed of a kinder or more unselfish nature.

You are lovable, entertaining, industrious, and refined.

But you possess one fault which needs eradicating, or at least a propensity which needs directing.

It is the habit of exaggeration in conversation.

I noticed that small happenings, amusing or exciting, became events of colossal importance when related by you.

I noticed that brief remarks were amplified and grew into something like orations when you repeated them.

I confess that you made small incidents more interesting, and insignificant words acquired poetic meaning under your tongue.

And I confess also that you never once wronged or injured any one by your exaggerations—­save yourself.

Zoe often said to me, “Isn’t it wonderful how Elsie’s imagination lends a halo to the commonest event,” and all your friends know that you have this habit of hyperbole in conversation.

Now, in your early girlhood, it is lightly regarded as “Elsie’s way.”  Later, in your maturity, I fear it will be called a harsher name.

When you come to the time of life that larger subjects than girlish pranks and badinage engage your mind, it will be necessary for you to be more exact in your descriptions of occurrences and conversations.  Besides this, there is the heritage of your unborn children to consider.  I once knew a little girl who possessed the same vivid imagination, and allowed it to continue unchecked through life.  She married, and her son, to-day, is utterly devoid of fine moral senses.  He is a mental monstrosity—­incapable of telling the truth.  His falsehoods are many and varied, and his name is a synonym of untruth.  He relates, as truth, the most marvellous exploits in which he really never took part, and describes scenes and places he has never visited, save through the pages of some novel.

His lack of moral sense has blighted his mother’s life, and she is wholly unconscious that he is only an exaggerated edition of herself.

I think, as a rule, such imaginations as you possess belong to the literary mind.  I would advise you to turn your attention to story-writing, and in that occupation you will find vent for your romantic tendencies.

Meanwhile watch yourself and control your speech.

Learn to be exact.

Tell the truth in small matters, and do not allow yourself to indulge in seemingly harmless white lies of exaggeration.