'It doesn't hurt me,' said I, putting a little stress on the me, a stress implying infinite possible hurt to Frau von Lindeberg's soul. 'It is horrid,' murmured Vicki, her head drooping over her book. 'I wish we didn't always pretend we're not poor. We are. Poor as mice. And it makes us so sensitive about it, so afraid of anything's being noticed. We spend our lives on tenterhooks--not nice things at all to spend one's life on.' 'Wriggly, uncomfortable things,' I agreed. 'I believe Cousin Mienchen isn't in the least taken in, for all our pains.' 'I don't believe people ever are,' said I; and we drifted into a consideration of the probable height of our temperatures and color of our ears if we could know how much the world we pose to really knows about us, if we could hear with what thoroughness those of our doings and even of our thoughts that we believed so secret are discussed. Frau von Lindeberg wasn't there, being too busy arranging comforts for her cousin's journey to preside, and so it was that we drifted unhindered from Milton into the foggier regions of private wisdom. We are neither of us wise, but it is surprising how talking to a friend, even to a friend as unwise as yourself, clears up your brains and lets in new light. That is one of the reasons why I like writing to you and getting your letters; only you mustn't be offended at my bracketing you, you splendid young man, with poor Vicki and poor myself in the class Unwise. Heaven knows I mean nothing to do with book-learning, in which, I am aware, you most beautifully excel. Yours sincerely, ROSE-MARIE SCHMIDT. XLIX Galgenberg, Oct. 9th.