Her letter finished and folded, she took it to him. “Put this in with yours, Daddy?” she asked.
He stared down at her, not answering for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said, “of course.” He added her letter to his, but he did not seal the envelope.
When he was gone, Phœbe sat down to wait. There were things to be seen outside—a barn to explore, and a chicken-coop. Also, Grandma had promised to show Phœbe over the house. But Phœbe was not especially interested. What she wanted most was the return of her father, that she might hear the hour of her return to New York.
Sophie came in to set the living-room to rights. On better acquaintance, there was something exceedingly attractive about Sophie. Her hair was so bright, her eyes were roguish. She had dimples. In the matter of dress, however, she entirely lacked that black-and-white smartness which Sally, Mother’s colored maid, possessed. Remembering Sally gave Phœbe a happy thought: Here was the one, of all those in the big house, who would be a pleasant companion to the local “movies.”
“Is there a moving-picture theatre in this town?” she asked.
“Is there!” cried Sophie. “I should say! Many as nine, I guess.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!”
“Mm.” Sophie looked doubtful, somehow. But she kept her own counsel. “I seen a grand picture last night,” she confided.
“Did you! Oh, tell me about it!”
First, for some reason, Sophie went to the door and looked out into the hall. Then, launching into her story, she dropped her voice. “It was all about awful rich folks,” she began. “There was a girl, and you seen her at the start in her papa’s viller. He’s so rich that his hired men wear knee pants.”