This desire of concealment was not what either of the friends expected to see in the other.  It showed that some project was under way, which, at least in its present stage, the Machiavellian young lady did not wish to disclose.  It had cost her a good deal of thought and care, apparently, for her waste-basket was full of scraps of paper, which looked as if they were the remains of a manuscript like that at which she was at work.  “Copying and recopying, probably,” thought Euthymia, but she was willing to wait to learn what Lurida was busy about, though she had a suspicion that it was something in which she might feel called upon to interest herself.

“Do you know what I think?” said Euthymia to the doctor, meeting him as he left his door.  “I believe Lurida is writing to this man, and I don’t like the thought of her doing such a thing.  Of course she is not like other girls in many respects, but other people will judge her by the common rules of life.”

“I am glad that you spoke of it,” answered the doctor; “she would write to him just as quickly as to any woman of his age.  Besides, under the cover of her office, she has got into the way of writing to anybody.  I think she has already written to Mr. Kirkwood, asking him to contribute a paper for the Society.  She can find a pretext easily enough if she has made up her mind to write.  In fact, I doubt if she would trouble herself for any pretext at all if she decided to write.  Watch her well.  Don’t let any letter go without seeing it, if you can help it.”

Young women are much given to writing letters to persons whom they only know indirectly, for the most part through their books, and especially to romancers and poets.  Nothing can be more innocent and simple-hearted than most of these letters.  They are the spontaneous outflow of young hearts easily excited to gratitude for the pleasure which some story or poem has given them, and recognizing their own thoughts, their own feelings, in those expressed by the author, as if on purpose for them to read.  Undoubtedly they give great relief to solitary young persons, who must have some ideal reflection of themselves, and know not where to look since Protestantism has taken away the crucifix and the Madonna.  The recipient of these letters sometimes wonders, after reading through one of them, how it is that his young correspondent has managed to fill so much space with her simple message of admiration or of sympathy.

Lurida did not belong to this particular class of correspondents, but she could not resist the law of her sex, whose thoughts naturally surround themselves with superabundant drapery of language, as their persons float in a wide superfluity of woven tissues.  Was she indeed writing to this unknown gentleman?  Euthymia questioned her point-blank.

“Are you going to open a correspondence with Mr. Maurice Kirkwood, Lurida?  You seem to be so busy writing, I can think of nothing else.  Or are you going to write a novel, or a paper for the Society,—­do tell me what you are so much taken up with.”