“That’s what I intend to find out. It’s got to be settled right now—this whole business.”
“Very well,” he concluded. “I’ll try to tell you. Your letter was all right—”
“No, it wasn’t. It was six, gushing, gloomy pages of homesickness for you. I had the blues awfully. Nobody around the house attempts to try to understand me or give me a fair show. You came along with a whole new world and called me ‘pal’ and let me in, and when you shipped off without ever giving me a hint that you were going, I was so flabbergasted I sat down and poured out. I posted it that night—in the rain—and cried the rest of the night because I had sent it. But I said, ‘Allen Blynn is the one man on earth who will understand a lonely child.’... But, it seems you didn’t.... Can’t you realize the—the—agony of every day that brought—nothing? If you had scolded me or something, I should have felt all right. But you just—shut up.”
She stared ahead of her in blurred indignation. The little, blood-red roses on her hat were trembling. He could see that she was striving to control her excited breathing.
“Little girl,” he spoke kindly, “that was a great blunder of mine. To think that I hurt you—is almost unbearable.... I thought I understood children, but, bless my soul!—I don’t know the beginnings. Let me tell you something. I am quite sure that every time I got hold of a pen or pencil, even to write so much as a postal card, I thought of your letter and wondered what I should do. I couldn’t decide. Several times I planned letters to you—”
“Honest! You really did?” she gasped.
“Yes, indeed. But, you see, I didn’t at all understand your letter. I’ve received loads of letters from children, but this one—why, child, it was—oh, now that I understand your ‘blues’ and all that sort of thing, it’s clear enough. But, you see, this was too—too—”
“Go on,” she spoke determinedly; “it was! I meant it to be!”
He made up his mind to speak plainly to her.
“You were a little child,” he began.