"I knew I should be successful, and it gives me
almost as much pleasure as yourself that I have
been so," said the youth, dismounting from his
horse and opening the gate that his companion
might pass.
"Thank you--thank you, dear Charles," said Julia
kindly. "I never can forget how good you are to me-
-how much you love to oblige not only me, but
every one around. Excuse me now, I have this dear
letter to read another time, I will thank you as I
ought."
So saying, Julia ran into the summer-house, and
fastening its door, gave herself up to the pleasure
of reading a first letter. Notes and short epistles
from her aunt, with divers letters from Anna written
slyly in the school-room and slipped into her lap,
she was already well acquainted with; but of real,
genuine letters, stamped by the post-office,
rumpled by the mail-bags, consecrated by the
steam-boat, this was certainly the first. This,
indeed, was a real letter: rivers rolled, and vast
tracts of country lay, between herself and its writer,
and that writer was a friend selected on the
testimony of innate evidence. It was necessary for
Julia to pause and breathe before she could open
her letter; and by the time this was done, her busy
fancy had clothed both epistle and writer with so
much excellence, that she was prepared to peruse
the contents with a respect bordering on
enthusiasm: every word must be true--every idea
purity itself.
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