"What made you do it?"
"BE--cause."
"Because what?"
"I--doe--know."
Just then a terrific roar arose from the garden. Looking out, I
saw Budge with a bleeding finger upon one hand, and my razor in
the other; he afterward explained he had been making a boat, and
that knife was bad to him. To apply adhesive plaster to the cut
was the work of but a minute, and I had barely completed this
surgical operation when Tom's gardener-coachman appeared and
handed me a letter. It was addressed in Helen's well-known hand,
and read as follows (the passages in brackets were my own
comments):--
"BLOOMDALE, June 21, 1875.
"DEAR HARRY:--I'm very happy in the thought that you are with my
darling children, and, although I'm having a lovely time here, I
often wish I was with you. [Ump--so do I.] I want you to know the
little treasures real well. [Thank you, but I don't think I care
to extend the acquaintanceship farther than is absolutely
necessary.] It seems to me so unnatural that relatives know so
little of those of their own blood, and especially of the innocent
little spirits whose existence is almost unheeded. [Not when
there's unlocked trunks standing about, sis.]
"Now I want to ask a favor of you. When we were boys and girls at
home, you used to talk perfect oceans about physiognomy, and
phrenology, and unerring signs of character.
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