The old woman nodded, and a reflection of her 221 smile twinkled in her husband’s eyes as he gazed over at the little figure opposite him.
“Wal,” said Rube, expansively, “it ain’t fer me to tell you, Ma, but we’ve got our dooty. Guess I ain’t a heap at writin’ fancy notions, but mebbe I ken help some. Y’ see it’s you an’ me. I ’lows Seth would hate to worrit Rosie wi’ things, but as I said we’ve got our dooty, an’ it seems——”
“Dooty?” Ma chuckled. “Say, Rube, we’ll write to the girl, you an’ me. An’ we don’t need to ask no by-your-leave of nobody. Not even Seth.”
“Not even Seth.”
The two conspirators eyed one another slyly, smiled with a quaint knowingness, and resumed their supper in silence.
A common thought, a common hope, held them. Neither would have spoken it openly, even though no one was there to overhear. Each felt that they were somehow taking advantage of Seth and, perhaps, not doing quite the right thing by Rosebud; but after all they were old, simple people who loved these two, and had never quite given up the hope of seeing them ultimately brought together.
The meal was finished, and half an hour later they were further working out their mild conspiracy in the parlor. Ma was the scribe, and was seated at the table surrounded by all the appurtenances of her business. Rube, in a great mental effort, was clouding the atmosphere with the reeking fumes of his pipe. The letter was a delicate matter, and its responsibility 222 sat heavily on this man of the plains. Ma was less embarrassed; her woman’s instinct helped her. Besides, since Rosebud had been away she had almost become used to writing letters.
“Say, Rube,” she said, looking up after heading her note-paper, “how d’ you think it’ll fix her when she hears?”
Rube gazed at the twinkling eyes raised to his; he gave a chuckling grunt, and his words came with elephantine meaning.
“She’ll be all of a muss-up at it.”