I had a friend about my own age, and between us there was
something very much like what is called a "school-girl
friendship," a kind of intimacy supposed to be superficial, but
often as deep and permanent as it is pleasant.
Eliza and I managed to see each other every day; we exchanged
confidences, laughed and cried together, read, wrote, walked,
visited, and studied together. Her dress always had an airy touch
which I admired, although I was rather indifferent as to what I
wore myself. But she would endeavor to "fix me up" tastefully,
while I would help her to put her compositions for the "Offering"
into proper style. She had not begun to go to school at two years
old, repeating the same routine of study every year of her
childhood, as I had. When a child, I should have thought it
almost as much of a disgrace to spell a word wrong, or make a
mistake in the multiplication table, as to break one of the Ten
Commandments. I was astonished to find that Eliza and other
friends had not been as particularly dealt with in their early
education.
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