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 had been running fast and had spoken terribly quickly.

“Just sit down here with me, Cornelli, and get your breath again,” said Martha quietly. “I am sure that somebody is coming whom your father loves, otherwise he would not tell you to be glad. When you know them, I am sure you will feel happy.”

“Yes, perhaps. But what are you writing, Martha? I have never before seen you write,” said the child, full of interest, for her thoughts had been suddenly turned.

“Writing is not easy for me,” answered Martha, “and you could do it so much better than I can. It is a long time since I have written anything.”

“Just give it to me, Martha, and I’ll write for you if you will only tell me what.” Cornelli readily took hold of the pen and dipped it into the bottom of the inkstand.

“I’ll tell you about it and then you can write it in your own way; I am sure that you can do it better than I can,” said Martha, quite relieved. She had been sitting for a long time