“IT seems to me that you are not as proficient as one would expect. There are a number of mistakes in this letter. How long have you been using the typewriter, Victoria?” “Not very long, Aunt Sophia.” “But how long?” “A few—at least, some weeks.” “Weeks? I supposed that you had owned one for months. In fact, it has never been explained to me where you got it nor how you happened to get it. Who bought the typewriter?” “Er—we did.” “But which one of you? I am under the impression that it belongs to Katherine. Am I right? Did she buy it?” There was no reply. The aunt and niece were in Mrs. Wentworth Ward’s room this afternoon in June, engaged with the correspondence of the latter. It was a beautiful day, and Victoria longed to be out of doors. She had watched Katherine go across the lawn with her music-roll under her arm, and she knew that she was going to the house on the hill to read music with Miss Madison. Honor was sitting under the trees with Sophy and Peter, who was able now to be out of doors, lying stretched out in a steamer chair. Victoria alone was in the house this golden afternoon; and, anxious though she was to finish her task and be off,—no doubt for that very reason,—she had never worked so slowly. Her mistakes were innumerable, and several times she had been obliged to rewrite a note because of her aunt’s dissatisfaction with its appearance. “Which one of you bought the typewriter?” repeated Mrs. Ward. “Why do you want to know, Aunt Sophia?” “I have my reasons. Who bought it?” “Katherine did.” “Ah, I thought so! I was sure that Honor told me so. And why does not Katherine use it?” “She has so much else to do.” “And yet she seems to have time to go to the Madisons’ almost, if not quite every day. Katherine is selfish.” “Oh, Aunt Sophia, I don’t think so!” “You may not think so, but that does not alter the facts. She is both selfish and extravagant—two serious faults. It is well for all of you that she is in a fair way to make a good match, but I am sorry for the young man.” “Why, Aunt Sophia, what do you mean?” asked Victoria, gazing at her aunt in surprise. “My dear, you must see for yourself what I mean. I shall say no more, but it is a self-evident fact. I will talk to Honor about it. There is nothing to be said against his family, and he seems to be a very nice young man,—good manners, good-looking, and all that, but Katherine is very young.” “Young! I should think so,” said Victoria, indignantly. “Katherine hasn’t an idea of anything of the kind, and I don’t see why it should ever have occurred to you, Aunt Sophia. Can’t people, men and women, I mean, be good friends without _that_ being thought of?” “Very seldom, my dear. But why you should be so disturbed by my remarks I cannot imagine. Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are like saucers. One would think that I had suggested something quite unusual and very much to be dreaded, instead of an event which would be most desirable in every way.”