Susanna's
heart beat fast, and she wondered for a moment, as she went back to her room,
whether she could ever give Sue a worldly childhood more free from danger than
the life she was now living. She found letters from Aunt Louisa and Jack on
reaching her room, and they lay in her lap under a pile of towels, to be read
and reread while her busy needle flew over the coarse crash. Sue stole in
quietly, kissed her mother's cheek, and sat down on her stool by the window,
marveling, with every "under" of the needle and "over" of the yarn, that it
was she, Sue Hathaway, who was making a real stocking.
Jack's pen was not that of an especially ready writer, but he had a practical
way of conveying considerable news. His present contributions, when freed from
their phonetic errors and spelled in Christian fashion, read somewhat as
follows:
Father says I must write to you every week, even if I make him do without, so
I will. I am well, and so is Aunt Louisa, and any boy that lives with her has
to toe the mark, I tell you; but she is good and has fine things to eat every
meal. What did Sue get for her birthday? I got a book from father and one from
Aunt Louisa and the one from you that you told her to buy.
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