"It's a shame, nevertheless, Myrtilla, a cruel shame!"
"You'd like to say it was a something-else shame, wouldn't you, dear
boy? Well, you can, if you like: but then you must say no more. And if
you really want to help me, you shall send me a long letter now and
again, with some of your new poems enclosed; and tell me what new books
are worth sending for? Will you do that?"
"Of course, I will. That's precious little to do anyhow."
"It's a good deal, really. But be sure you do it."
"And, of course, you'll write to me sometimes. I don't think you know
yet what your letters are to me. I never work so well as when I've had a
letter from you."
"Really, dear lad, I don't fancy you know how happy that makes me to
hear."
"Yes, you take just the sort of interest in my work I want, and that no
one else takes."
"Not even Angel?" said Myrtilla, slily.
"Angel, bless her, loves my work; and is a brave little critic of it;
but then it isn't disloyal to her to say that she doesn't know as much
as you. Besides, she doesn't approach it in quite the same way.
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