The man broke off, and dipped his pen in the ink. Rosebud watched him, and, for once in her wilful life, forgot that she had been refused something, and consequently to be angry. She looked at the head bending over the paper as the man inscribed, “Dear sirs,” and that something which had peeped out of her eyes earlier in their interview was again to be seen there.
She reached out a hand as she slid from the table and smoothed the head of dark hair with it. 117
“All right, Seth,” she said gently. “We’ll have no promises, but take care of yourself, because you are my own old—‘Daddy.’”
At the door she turned.
“You can write your letter now,” she said, with a light laugh. The next moment she was gone.
CHAPTER XI
THE LETTER WRITTEN
But Seth’s trials were not yet over. The two interviews just passed had given Ma Sampson sufficient time to complete her household duties. And now she entered her parlor, the pride of her home.