The Dark Star

Suzanne is our maid--the maid of Princess Naïa, of course--who walks

to and from school with me. I didn't wish her to follow me about at

first, but the Princess insisted, and I'm resigned to it now.

The Princess Mistchenka is such a darling! I owe her more than I owe

anybody except mother and father. She simply took me as I was, a

young, stupid, ignorant, awkward country girl with no experience, no

savoir-faire, no clothes, and even no knowledge of how to wear

them; and she is trying to make out of me a fairly intelligent and

presentable human being who will not offend her by gaucheries when

with her, and who will not disgrace her when in the circle of her

friends.

Oh, of course I still make a faux pas now and then, mon ami; there

are dreadful pitfalls in the French language into which I have fallen

more than once. And at times I have almost died of mortification. But

everybody is so amiable and patient, so polite, so gay about my

mistakes. I am beginning to love the French. And I am learning so

much! I had no idea what a capacity I had for learning things. But

then, with Princess Naïa, and with my kind and patient teachers and my

golden opportunities, even a very stupid girl must learn something.

And I am not really very stupid; I've discovered that. On the

contrary, I really seem to learn quite rapidly; and all that annoys me

is that there is so much to learn and the days are not long enough, so

anxious am I, so ambitious, so determined to get out of this wonderful

opportunity everything I possibly can extract.

I have lived in these few months more years than my own age adds up! I

am growing old and wise very fast. Please hasten to write to me before

I have grown so old that you would not recognize me if you met me.

Your friend,

Ruhannah.

* * * * *

The letter flattered him. He was rather glad he had once kissed the

girl who could write such a letter.

He happened to be engaged, at that time, in drawing several

illustrations for a paper called the Midweek Magazine. There was a

heroine, of course, in the story he was illustrating. And, from

memory, and in spite of the model posing for him, he made the face

like the face of Ruhannah Carew.

But the days passed, and he did not reply to her letter. Then there

came still another letter from her: Why don't you write me just one line? Have you really forgotten me?

You'd like me if you knew me now, I think. I am really quite grown up.

And I am so happy!