In time, Clover learned to live without Katy, and to be cheerful
still.
Her cheerfulness was greatly helped by the letters which came regularly,
and showed how contented Katy herself was. She and Ned were having a
beautiful time, first in New York, and making visits near it, then in
Portsmouth and Portland, when the frigate moved on to these harbors, and
in Newport, which was full and gay and amusing to the last degree. Later,
in August, the letters came from Bar Harbor, where Katy had followed, in
company with the commodore's wife, who seemed as nice as her husband; and
Clover heard of all manner of delightful doings,--sails, excursions,
receptions on board ship, and long moonlight paddles with Ned, who was an
expert canoeist. Everybody was so wonderfully kind, Katy said; but Ned
wrote to his sister that Katy was a great favorite; every one liked her,
and his particular friends were all raging wildly round in quest of girls
just like her to marry. "But it's no use; for, as I tell them," he added,
"that sort isn't made in batches. There is only one Katy; and happily she
belongs to me, and the other fellows must get along as they can."
This was all satisfactory and comforting; and Clover could endure a little
loneliness herself so long as her beloved Katy seemed so happy. She was
very busy besides, and there _were_ compensations, as she admitted to
herself. She liked the consequence of being at the head of domestic
affairs, and succeeding to Katy's position as papa's special
daughter,--the person to whom he came for all he wanted, and to whom he
told his little secrets.
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