"The paper is
vegetable, the ink mineral, and the fire is--is--well, genius, you
know, and--wait! I'll ask another question; can it be opened and shut?"
"It can be open--yes. But shut? I hardly see how--"
"Why, surely, papa, you can shut a book," put in Faith.
"But it isn't a book," returned the captain blandly, at which both
stared in dumb amazement.
"Not a _book_? Oh dear!" they sighed in concert.
Their father laughed outright.
"Why don't you ask some more questions?" he cried teasingly.
"Oh, because it seems as if every one mixed us up worse. I was so
_sure_ it was a book," groaned Hope, quite crestfallen.
"Well then, is it useful or ornamental?"
"Now, that's a poser!" He ruminated a minute, then said, "It's useful,
certainly, but not just what you'd call ornamental. One wouldn't save
it for an ornament--not this one, anyway, but simply for its contents--"
"I have it, I have it!" Faith actually jumped up and down.
"It's a letter! It's a letter from Debby! Now, isn't it? Your
'contents' gave it away. Say I'm right, father--come, now!"
"Well, you are. You've guessed it, that's certain."
"Humph!" sneered Hope, distinctly miffed, "who couldn't, after you'd
fairly told it? I knew all the time it was a book, or a letter, or
something."
"You should have said so sooner, Miss Hindsight," laughed her father.
"But I confess you came pretty close to it, my dear. And here it is.
From Debby, surely, because from Portsmouth, but this elegant modern
writing is never hers in the world.
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