The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 18, 1904, Page 9

i : 4 the United States of & mes Geo 4 h Eerl of Waltham, 4 nd, Gerald Sinclair re, August 1. wn here yester- feth century as contemp- the eighteenth fence. Besides And like baggy Think n green meadows a bad & commission ideals. days are t nohow. thing to do been ndon for four months. the autumn, and do som stalking at Glenmoor. TH t elleve me, your affectionate cous’ WALTHAM. To the same—Angust 2 Dear Gerald—I 1ad not & very fine imaginetion I should really think my- self {Il. Auntie runs about and doubles her Goses of beef tes end slops gener- ally. Ehe bas a doctor friend, who pops in and out of the house, who makes servants put out thelr tongues,” and mends Persian kittens' legs, and gen- erally seeins friendly and futile. Then there are young clerks out of place, end an overworked clergyman from e Bast ¥nd, and two or three gover- nesses, who seem out of work. “Rum- you'll say. Yes, but humanity is very h the same, only most peo- ple are ed by their circumstances. Yesterday they all talked at once, people always do, and up my hat, and went out Two governesses offered y me, but I sald I had to and so T went out by nd myself after a bit in & wood—ell green, all moss, and over- scarc light. Suddenly & ride there came a figure in white. The figure approached me, and I saw & pretty face and real golden hair—no dye, and pale blue eyes, and e beby mouth. As the lady passed me she P & book. I ran forward What was my sur- 1d & novel or a poem, but & medical treatise. I gave it to d and passed on. She was & preity pictyge, and really looked very intelligent, (Extracts from other letters to G. Bin- clair Bsq.) The next day T came out end found my littie lady sitting under an oak tres. A Whole pile of books lay by her #ide and 2 big bag. I bowed and she blushed. I remarked that the day was hot, and she said “Very.” I stood by ber, and sald I was staying at Mrs. head any end picked prise, not to her and she THE NEXT —tL S posEs QENEPAL-Y . VRS ABOVT AND ;";‘-r‘?:». AND SLOPS A Severne’s, and she hoped “country air arm, and she sighed And said, “T shall mdo&n‘mM"“Bflflflmfltm.h.":mm b » the East End,” Treplied: “Shropshire myen I, told her, she was much too and Londop were very &ifferent” . u;g w'lm‘m‘mgo!.‘*thlmt‘ Then I tock UP ene of her books, and ' 4ng she answered—*Oh, you know my 1 saw they were all en medioal Sud- ymg 15 always coming, and then I am Jects. Fevers, disease, operations. £ “Why do you read them?” I asked. (Letter & fow Says afterward). “I want to be a doctor. We are tos All the gowernesses have been jabber- many to be at home.” Then I said she ing French, German, Spanish and would never like to cut off & leg or an broken English. And-the High Church .my old nurse- used to call, “wouldnit: East End clergyman has found a Low Church country -curate to argue with, and the ncise has been dreadful, what ““all the fire-irons of the house put into a pot and shaken,” so I have fled again to the woods. ’ . Again I have met my little lady. She 18 the eidest of twelve children, and has made up her mind to be a doctor. “You know,” she tells’ me, “there’s a lot to learn, but I shave Harry's books.” Harry is a cousin, and rather a prig from ‘what she tells~ me. My. little friend’s name is Alice, and she means to become a-doctor. - “I shall be able to-help so many people,” she says, “and do real good.”® She is very pretty and babbles on like a stream on a summer’s day. - By the way, she will have it that I am an East End clergyman, and .asked me if it was true that there was a real lord at Leighton Court,'and {f he was very handsome and very wicked. I told'her “not particularly so. Dull chap, Waltham,” I said, “and silent.” But she would have it that. I was wicked. “They are brought up to be wicked,” she sald. “Aunt Matty, who has been governess in very high famf- Ties, says it and knows it, too.” T satd T hoped there Were exceptions, but she +4Bome day,” 1 sald, “I'll;try tosshow you g:lord who is not very.wicked.”. “Ah,. she :saig, “you're simple and ‘good, but you see, I should scon find out his wickedness, He wouldn't take me in, for I know lords are wicked." (A letter ‘on the 334 instant) rietta and Vemetis Montgomery are coming. I wish they weren't. They AV RS AT e are stupld and stuffy, with masses of hair over pads and puffs, painted faces and full of athletic inclinations, and tongues steeped in spite. Besides which they will lay’ siege, run after -me, course me down, and I hate proposals. ‘When I want it I can do that mywself, 'At sixty doubtless it may be a pleasure to &- but at twenty-eight every do his own' love-making, n ‘the -superiority of woman. I inte the wood, and there agaln STMILRD AnG -met my little lady. By the by,'I am ' beginning to call her “my little lady.” /She was reading as usual, and 'writing . with apencil‘tHat would' break off’ di- - ‘rectly it was wapted. “I should ‘know so much if I could <spell,” ishe sald. ‘But spelling is like ‘adding—it's always changing.” Then 1 opened her book. It was a treatise on the efficacy of radium in dafly lfe. “You oan't understand -that,” I sald. “I shall have to,” she CATHERINE , MILNES — \GASKELL » answered one ma when one's poor Then she toid Lots of housework, § ngs to mend for man father, brothers at sea. d—is now staying with hat she calls “study- iday must not be an I could teach her— education and stam- babies to old clergy Mother an a rich aunt, b ing,” for even idle tirpe. talk dea el mer and th cut g -words. Of- ictionary. “But she asked. “Of e v clergyman who visits- in -the -East End is obliged by his bishop to have a medical encyclo- pedi “How kind.” she murmured, and added, “do you know, everybody Is kind to me!” That ht Venetia and Henrfetta ran after me like grey- d me my favorite flower, » that they lked dark d in the twilight, 1 made what they e ah the thought « ons and fluff may cauty. A man ants the al thing at least once In i After the Py bereave. nt probably philosophy comes—and the creed that one woman is as good v anct but the first time, by 1 like to spin your own her My De Morland.y ys told me to write to you, 1d 1 always try when there is not too much to do, too many children to teach, or too many socks to mend. I have made up my tremen- dous mind T am going to be a doctor. Youw'll say you can’t. Yes, one can, for ones can do the thing one likes—when one wants it Badly—badly—and ene can even learn long hard -words and get sense out of obscure writing, so don't try and turn me, for I mean what I say. Yesterday I took my book out, and when walking through the wood at the back of my aunt s house, I dropped it and a young man picked it up—a very handsome, tall, dgrky man. Ha gave it back-to me with’a bow; but such an uncommon bow that I could not help staring and feeling quite con~ fused. (An extract from a later letter.) He seems to be a clergyman In the . East- End. He is very good, al- though he is s0 handsome, and he has promised me a medical dictionary. It seems now that the bishops make every curate have one. He assures me that a thorough medical knowledge is as necessary to a curate as deep at- tainments in theology. (Further extract) He comes every day and we read to- gether. e knows how to pronounce all the words, the longest and hardest. I am making great progress. To-day we talked about duty, and he told me that people sometimes had false dutles, and that little duties faded defore great duties—and that thers were even bet- ter dutles for ‘women than to become doctors and help their familles. * (The last letter from the same) I.am too happy;: too happy almost to write. - All the world seems made of sunshine—and I don't think I can ever be unhappy again. He has told me thatthe loves me—little, stupld, ugly, senseless me. And he fsn’t a clergy- man, after but ‘s lord, and nol wicked, not at all, although Rhe Ras aunts and uncles who all have titles, And I love him—1 love him—I am going to be his doctor. Just write one line and give me joy, dear, for I love Rim just as people love in stocy M; it s all quite trae