Yet such was the case. Jack had become a "ready letter-writer" ever since
his removal to the city, whither some kind friends had invited him
directly he could leave his sick-room. Aunt Mary did not know who the
friends were and had hesitated somewhat as to opening the first letter.
But it had borne no sting--being instead most sweetly pathetic, and since
then, others had followed with touching frequency. Their polished periods
fell upon the old lady's stony hardness of heart with the persistent
frequency of the proverbial drop of water. After the second she had ceased
to regard the instructions given Lucinda as to mentioning her nephew's
name, and after the third he became again her favorite topic of
conversation.
It seemed that the poor boy had had the misfortune to contract measles,
and in his weakened state the disease had nearly proved fatal. You can
perhaps divine the effect of this statement on the grand-aunt, and the
further effect of the words: "But never mind, Aunt Mary," with which he
concluded the brief narration.
Aunt Mary had tried to snort and had sniffed instead; she had turned back
to the first page, read, "All my head has been shaved, but I don't care
about having any more fun, anyhow," and had let the letter fall in her
lap. Every time that she had thought since of "our boy," her anger had
fallen hotter upon whoever was handiest. Lucinda (who was used to it)
lived under a figurative rain of cinders, and thrived salamander-like in
their midst; but Arethusa--who had come up for a week--found herself totally
unable to stand the endless lava and boiling ashes, and fled back to the
bosom of Mr.
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