She got the Letter back, but she had to steal it. And it turned out that

the other man had really only wanted her money all the time.

That story was a real ilumination to me. I shall have a great deal of

money when I am of age, from my grandmother. I saw it all. It was a trap

sure enough. And if I was to get out I would have to have the letter.

IT WAS THE LETTER THAT PUT ME IN HIS POWER.

The next day was Xmas. I got a lot of things, including the necklace,

and a mending basket from Sis, with the hope that it would make me

tidey, and father had bought me a set of Silver Fox, which mother

did not approve of, it being too expencive for a young girl to wear,

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according to her. I must say that for an hour or two I was happy enough.

But the afternoon was terrable. We keep open house on Xmas afternoon,

and father makes a champagne punch, and somebody pours tea, although

nobody drinks it, and there are little cakes from the Club, and the

house is decorated with poin--(Memo: Not in the Dictionery and I cannot

spell it, although not usualy troubled as to spelling.) At eleven o'clock the mail came in, and mother sorted it over, while

father took a gold piece out to the post-man.

There were about a million cards, and mother glanced at the addresses

and passed them round. But suddenly she frowned. There was a small

parcel, addressed to me.

"This looks like a Gift, Barbara," she said. And proceded to open it.

My heart skipped two beats, and then hamered. Mother's mouth was set as

she tore off the paper and opened the box. There was a card, which she

glanced at, and underneath, was a book of poems.

"Love Lyrics," said mother, in a terrable voice. "To Barbara, from

H----"

"Mother----" I began, in an ernest tone.

"A child of mine recieving such a book from a man!" she went on.

"Barbara, I am speachless."

But she was not speachless. If she was speachless for the next half

hour, I would hate to hear her really converse. And all that I could do

was to bear it. For I had made a Frankenstein--see the book read last

term by the Literary Society--not out of grave-yard fragments, but from

malted milk tablets, so to speak, and now it was pursuing me to an early

grave. For I felt that I simply could not continue to live.




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