If you had any charm, however shy, Myrtilla Williamson would find it, and send you away with a great gush of gratitude to her because it had been found at last.

This was perhaps the greatest charm of her clever letters; they were all about "you,"-- not, of course, that you didn't want to hear about her.

But frequently all she told you of herself was her name.

Perhaps she would write in the half-hour that remained between, say, a visit from Esther and the arrival of Williamson, to fix in a few intimate vivid words the charm of their afternoon together, and tell Esther in some new gratifying way what she was to her and why and how she was it; or when Henry had been there--even more carefully in the absence of Williamson--to read her his new poem, she would write him a long letter of literary criticism, just perceptibly vibrating with the emotion she might have felt for the romantic young poet, whom she allowed to call himself her "cavaliere servente," had she not been Williamson as well as Myrtilla, and had she not, as she somewhat unscientifically declared, been old enough to be his mother.
"Well," she said, as they sipped their tea, "so Henry's really gone.

He slipped round to bid me a sort of good-bye yesterday, and told me the whole story.