Her response brought a prompt answer from him, and the roses grew
faster than the spring itself. Friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every
word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each
epistle--for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope. She was
praying, hungering, longing for June to come--sweet June and its tender
touch--June with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds. Now she was forgetting
the wish which had been expressed to Anderson Crow on the drive home
from Boggs City. In its place grew the fierce hope that the once
despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right
to stand among others without shame and despair.
"Hear from Wick purty reg'lar, don't you, Rosalie?" asked Anderson
wickedly, one night while Blootch was there. The suitor moved uneasily,
and Rosalie shot a reproachful glance at Anderson, a glance full of
mischief as well.
"He writes occasionally, daddy."
"I didn't know you corresponded reg'larly," said Blootch.
"I did not say regularly, Blucher."
"He writes sweet things to beat the band, I bet," said Blootch with a
disdain he did not feel.
"What a good guesser you are!" she cried tormentingly.
"Well, I guess I'll be goin'," exploded Blootch wrathfully; "it's
gittin' late."
"He won't sleep much to-night," said Anderson, with a twinkle in his
eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller.
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