“Maybe you mixed a deal with them sort o’ folk,” he went on presently.
“Oh, yes.” The violet eyes were again alight.
“Pretty tidy sort o’ fellers, eh?”
“Rather. I liked one or two very much—very much indeed. There was Bob—Bob Vinceps, you know—he was a splendid fellow. He was awfully nice to me. Took auntie and me everywhere. I wonder how he’s getting on. I must see if there’s a letter from him at Beacon. He asked me if he might write. And wasn’t it nice of him, Seth? He came all the way from London to Liverpool to see me, I mean us, off. It’s a long way—a dreadful long way.”
“Ah, mebbe when I go into Beacon Crossing I’ll fetch that letter out for you, Rosie.”
But Seth’s simple-heartedness—Rosebud called it “stupidity,”—was too much. The girl’s smile vanished in a second and she answered sharply.
“Thanks, I’ll get my own letters.” Then she went on demurely. “You see if there happened to be a letter from Bob I shouldn’t like auntie to see it. She is very—very—well, she mightn’t like it.”
“How?”
Seth looked squarely into the face beside him.
“She thinks—well, you see, she says I’m very young, and—and——”