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He was always that
way.
And now, after twenty-five happy years--
ELISABETH. [Footnote: That is right. Up to this the printer has
had his way. Now we will have ours, she and I, and spell her name
properly. Together we shall manage him.]
I cut the rest of it off, because I am the editor and want to begin
again here myself, and what is the use of being an editor unless
you can cut "copy"? Also, it is not good for woman to allow her
to say too much. She has already said too much about that letter.
I have got it in my pocket, and I guess I ought to know. "Your own
Elisabeth"--was not that enough? For him, with his poor, saddened
life, peace be to its memory! He loved her. That covers all. How
could he help it?
If they did not think I had lost my senses before, they assuredly
did when that telegram reached Ribe. Talk about the privacy of the
mails (the telegraph is part of the post-office machinery there),
official propriety, and all that--why, I don't suppose that telegraph
operator could get his coat on quick enough to go out and tell the
amazing news.


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