Betsy nodded. “That’s right,” she said with satisfaction. “That’s good. She loves bein’ made of. I b’lieve that’ll work well.”
There was another silence, which Betsy broke.
“I understand you’ve got somethin’ for me,” she said.
The girl looked around, puzzled.
“Why,—why no, Betsy.”
“Mr. Irving says so.”
Rosalie regarded her calmly, but the faint color deepened in her cheeks.
“I don’t know what he means.”
“Well, I don’t know who else should.” Betsy took a letter out of her pocket and tossed it across to her guest, who opened it, and read:—