"He's been telling me about himself, you know; about what he wants to do in the world," added Susie, looking up at him.
"Has he?" and her father laughed. "The same old game—effective as ever!
We all do it—why, I remember, Susie—"
He stopped suddenly, with a little tremor in his voice.
"Yes, dad," very softly.
She was leaning forward on his knee, looking up at him. He put his arm around her and drew her close.
"You're like your mother, Susie," was all he dared trust himself to say, his arms tight around her.
They sat so a moment, lost in memory, until a knock at the door brought
Susie to her feet. A page handed in a little package.
"For Mademoiselle Rushford," he said.
"Thank you," said Susie, and closed the door. "For me?" she repeated, as she turned back into the room. "What do you suppose it is?"
"The quickest way to find out is to open it, my dear," suggested her father, drily.