having come to say goodbye, put her lips close to my ear and tried to
whisper something, and cried and kissed me instead.
Our square was a dimmer and duller place after she left. But her letters
helped. They were so exactly like herself. Even at the first, when
things seemed to be going ill with her, they were all courage, and
quaint humor and determination to get well and come back to our square,
which was the dearest and best place in the world with the dearest and
best people in it. Homesickness. Poor little, lonely mayme. She was
readingshe wrote the bonnie lassieall the books that the dominie had