She is nothing but a girl, though she looks as if she was eighteen.  She lives up at a place called The Poplars, with an old woman that is her aunt or something, and nobody seems to be much acquainted with her except Olive Eveleth, who is the minister’s daughter at Saint Bartholomew’s Church.  She never has beauxs round her, as some young girls do—­they say that she is not happy with her aunt and another woman that stays with her, and that is the reason she keeps so much to herself.  The minister came to see me the other day,—­Mr. Stoker his name is.  I was all alone, and it frightened me, for he looks, oh, so solemn on Sundays!  But he called me “My dear,” and did n’t say anything horrid, you know, about my being such a dreadful, dreadful sinner, as I have heard of his saying to some people,—­but he looked very kindly at me, and took my hand, and laid his hand on my shoulder like a brother, and hoped I would come and see him in his study.  I suppose I must go, but I don’t want to.  I don’t seem to like him exactly.

I hope you love me as well as ever you did.  I can’t help feeling sometimes as if you was growing away from me,—­you know what I mean,—­getting to be too great a person for such a small person as I am.

I know I can’t always understand you when you talk about art, and that you know a great deal too much for such a simple girl as I am.  Oh, if I thought I could never make you happy!...  There, now!  I am almost ashamed to send this paper so spotted.  Gifted Hopkins wrote some beautiful verses one day on “A Maiden Weeping.”  He compared the tears falling from her eyes to the drops of dew which one often sees upon the flowers in the morning.  Is n’t it a pretty thought?

I wish I loved art as well as I do poetry; but I am afraid I have not so much taste as some girls have.  You remember how I liked that picture in the illustrated magazine, and you said it was horrid.  I have been afraid since to like almost anything, for fear you should tell me some time or other it was horrid.  Don’t you think I shall ever learn to know what is nice from what is n’t?

Oh, dear Clement, I wish you would do one thing to please me.  Don’t say no, for you can do everything you try to,—­I am sure you can.  I want you to write me some poetry,—­just three or four little verses to Suzie.  Oh, I should feel so proud to have some lines written all on purpose for me.  Mr. Hopkins wrote some the other day, and printed them in the paper, “To M—–­e.”  I believe he meant them for Myrtle,—­the first and last letter of her name, you see, “M” and “e.”

Your letter was a dear one, only so short!  I wish you would tell me all about what you are doing at Alderbank.  Have you made that model of Innocence that is to have my forehead, and hair parted like mine!  Make it pretty, do, that is a darling.

Now don’t make a face at my letter.  It is n’t a very good one, I know; but your poor little Susie does the best she can, and she loves you so much!