The letter thus scornfully treated runs over with a young girl’s written loquacity: 

“Oh, Lulu, there is such a sensation as you never saw or heard of ’in all your born days,’ as mamma used to say.  He has been at the village for some time, but lately we have had—­oh, the weirdest stories about him!  ’The Mysterious Stranger is the name some give him, but we girls call him the Sachem, because he paddles about in an Indian canoe.  If I should tell you all the things that are said about him I should use up all my paper ten times over.  He has never made a visit to the Institute, and none of the girls have ever spoken to him, but the people at the village say he is very, very handsome.  We are dying to get a look at him, of course—­though there is a horrid story about him—­that he has the evil eye did you ever hear about the evil eye?  If a person who is born with it looks at you, you die, or something happens—­awful—­is n’t it?

“The rector says he never goes to church, but then you know a good many of the people that pass the summer at the village never do—­they think their religion must have vacations—­that’s what I’ve heard they say—­vacations, just like other hard work—­it ought not to be hard work, I’m sure, but I suppose they feel so about it.  Should you feel afraid to have him look at you?  Some of the girls say they would n’t have him for the whole world, but I shouldn’t mind it—­especially if I had on my eyeglasses.  Do you suppose if there is anything in the evil eye it would go through glass?  I don’t believe it.  Do you think blue eye-glasses would be better than common ones?  Don’t laugh at me—­they tell such weird stories!  The Terror—­Lurida Vincent, you know-makes fun of all they say about it, but then she ’knows everything and doesn’t believe anything,’ the girls say—­Well, I should be awfully scared, I know, if anybody that had the evil eye should look at me—­but—­oh, I don’t know—­but if it was a young man—­and if he was very—­very good-looking—­I think—­perhaps I would run the risk—­but don’t tell anybody I said any such horrid thing—­and burn this letter right up—­there ’s a dear good girl.”

It is to be hoped that no reader will doubt the genuineness of this letter.  There are not quite so many “awfuls” and “awfullys” as one expects to find in young ladies’ letters, but there are two “weirds,” which may be considered a fair allowance.  How it happened that “jolly” did not show itself can hardly be accounted for; no doubt it turns up two or three times at least in the postscript.

Here is an extract from another letter.  This was from one of the students of Stoughton University to a friend whose name as it was written on the envelope was Mr. Frank Mayfield.  The old postmaster who found fault with Miss “Lulu’s” designation would probably have quarrelled with this address, if it had come under his eye.  “Frank” is a very pretty, pleasant-sounding name, and it is not strange that many persons use it in common conversation