She found Rosalie in her cheap traveling dress of golden brown, and with her hat on.
She was sitting before a table on which was a breakfast-tray, and she was sipping coffee.
“That’s right, Betsy. Come and see the lay-over,” she said. “I feel still as if I needed identification.”
The night before, her supper had been served in the same way and place by Mr. Derwent’s order, and he and Betsy had, unsuspected, spent an hour here with the girl, planning her movements, and allowing her new benefactor to become somewhat acquainted with his old friend’s daughter.
Mr. Derwent had no desire to stir up questioning, and there was every chance now that Rosalie would get off by the morning stage without being observed.
“Is it really I, Betsy, sitting here and being waited on like this, and being cared for by such adorable people?”
The girl had risen on Betsy’s entrance, and embraced her, pressing her fresh cheek against the thin one where a bright spot burned.
“Now, now, you can hug me a fortnight hence,” said Betsy. “Sit down and finish your breakfast.”
She glanced at the bed. The coverings were neatly laid over the foot-board, and the pillows were plump and smooth.
“How did you sleep, child?” she continued as Rosalie returned to her coffee. “The pillows look as if you hadn’t touched ’em.”