Lavinia, who had not been able to resist a pang that Marley had written his mother quite as promptly as he had written her, found some consolation in the fact that his letter to his mother was not nearly so long as his letter to her, and it contained, too, the same information; in some instances, identical phrases, as letters do that are written at the same time. She felt that she should be happy in them both, and she wished she could determine which of the letters had been written first. After she had read Mrs. Marley's letter, she could not speak for a moment; the letter closed with a description of the sensations it gave Marley to open his trunk and come across the Bible his mother had packed in it. But she controlled herself, and when she had finished reading parts of her own letter to Mrs. Marley, she said:
"Well, he seems to be in good spirits, doesn't he? He writes so amusingly of everything."
Mrs. Marley looked up at Lavinia with a curious smile.
"What?" asked Lavinia, glancing in alarm at the two letters which she still held in her lap.
"Why, the poor boy is dying of homesickness; that's what makes him write in that mocking vein."
"Do you think that is so?" Lavinia leaned forward.
"Why, I know it," replied Mrs. Marley, with a little laugh. "He's just like his father."
For a moment Lavinia felt a satisfaction in Marley's loneliness, but she denied the satisfaction when she said:
"Not for a long while, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Marley. "Not until some one can be with him."
Lavinia blushed, and before she knew it Mrs. Marley had bent over and kissed her cheek.
"He has a long hard battle before him, my dear," she said, "in a great cruel city. We must help him all we can."
Lavinia hesitated a moment, then she put her arms about Mrs. Marley and drew her down for the kiss which sealed their friendship.
They sat and talked of Marley for a long time, and at last when Lavinia rose to go, she held out to Mrs. Marley the letter her son had written her. She looked at it a moment before handing it to Mrs. Marley.
"Would you like to keep it?" Mrs. Marley asked.
"If you wish. But you must come often; I shall be lonely now, you know, and you must bring his letters and read parts of them. He'll be writing so many more to you than he will to me."