“Oh, certainly,—that is, by all means, if you think best, my child. You know I leave all such matters to you. I have so many other things to think of,” he added, dreamily, raising his hand to his forehead.
“Yes,” said the child, softly; “I know you have, dear papa.”
“We’ll take the room,” she said to Mother Morton, whose curiosity momentarily increased, “at the price you named, and will commence now, if you have no objection.”
“Oh, no; but your baggage. You will need to bring that.”
“We have not much to bring. We shall get it to-morrow.”
“You will board yourselves?” asked the landlady.
“Yes, I shall cook. I am quite used to it,” was the grave reply.
“At any rate you won’t feel like it to-night. I will send you up some supper.”
“Thank you,” said the child, her face lighting up gratefully; “I am sure you are very kind,” and she held out her hand in instinctive acknowledgment.
If Mother Morton had before been prepossessed in her favor, this act, so frank and child-like, completed the conquest of her heart.