"Not tell! Why not?" asked Bijou. "What is there to shock her? She must be
easily shocked. I have got nothing to be ashamed of; and I shall tell the
old dear to-morrow."

"Does your father know it?" said Ethel.

"Why, _of course_ he does," replied Bijou impatiently. "I generally read
him the letters, and he laughs fit to kill himself over some of them.
Popper don't care one bit. He says I am old enough to paddle my own canoe;
and so I am. And he knows I don't care a pin about any of them. It's great
fun until you get tired of it. I am tired of it now, rather. I used to
write to twenty; but it has dwindled down to twelve, and I'm going to drop
two of those, because they are in the army and are both stationed at the
same post. You see, it is too much trouble to write different letters to
each one, so I get up one bright, smart one that suits all around, and
copy it for them all, with some changes."

This speech almost stunned Ethel for a while. "But doesn't it vex them
very much to get such letters? What if they should find it out? And if you
don't at all care for them, why do it at all?"

"Why, for the _fun_ of the thing, goosie. Angry? No. They do the same
thing themselves. Will Piper sent Kate Price and me letters that were
exactly the same, word for word: we compared them. That is where I got the
idea. Splendid one, isn't it? I am just bent and determined on having
stacks of fun before I am married, because after that, you know, I shall
be laid on the shelf completely," said Bijou.

"But why should you be 'laid on the shelf'? I can't make it out. Your life