“No—Oh, no. Not really,” Julie evaded hastily, with that little breathless catch in her voice which was characteristic of her under any stress. “No. But I might.”
“Well, it would be a sad day for everybody in this house if you was to leave,” Mrs. Watkins said heartily. “You’ve got something about you most people ain’t got. You’re so—so good.”
Julie looked up, her eyes wide and horrified.
“Oh—Oh, no! I’m not. Don’t say that,” she faltered blindly.
It was after her talk with Mrs. Watkins that Julie made a fresh attempt to get Miss Fogg to write to her niece. The old woman would never give her either the niece’s name or her address. That and the locked drawer in her bureau were the only things over which she evinced the secretive suspicion toward Julie that she showed toward every one else. When Julie tried again that afternoon to persuade her, she firmed her lips obstinately.
“I’ll write if I want, an’ I’ll not if I don’t,” she announced.
“Look,” Julie coaxed. “See, I’ve brought you in ink and paper and everything. See what nice paper this is.”
Miss Fogg took the paper and inspected it critically. “That’s right nice,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t write to her on any but the best paper; she thinks a heap of having things stylish.”
Julie drew up a table and spread the writing materials invitingly upon it.
“There now, just write her a few lines,” she begged.