“Now then, that will never do! We shall have Michael growing bigger than you!”
That amused her, and together they constructed imaginary scenes with an enormous Michael.
“We’re going out to dinner to-night,” he said. “Uncle Chris will make you pretty, eh?”
So he carefully washed the little face, and combed her hair, talking to her all the while.
“What did the little girl do to-day?” he asked.
“I writed a letter to my daddy. I writes to my daddy every day.”
He felt a great pity for her, and a generous pity for the man who had had to leave her forever. She often spoke about her father, and in honour bound, Mr. Petersen encouraged it, although it wasn’t altogether pleasant for him. He didn’t like to be reminded of the dead Englishman whom he had supplanted.
“That’s right,” he said. “Remember your daddy.”
The little girl was sitting on his knee while he buttoned her frock; she rubbed her silky head against his face and rested for a moment against him. He could hear Minnie in the next room, opening bureau drawers in a vain search for some of her perpetually lost belongings.
“Mother wroted too, to daddy,” Sandra went on, “and I did post it in the high box.”