Then she paused and, with a little cry of vexation over her selfishness, held out the biscuit to her father.
"Here, Daddy," she said.

"You take this--because you tried to bring me somethin' good to eat yesterday." The father threw a look at Morrison and caught Virgie to him in a swift embrace.
"No, dear," he said.

"Eat your nice buttered biscuit and thank the good Lord for it.

Your father will get more fun out of seeing you eat that little bit than he would out of owning a whole cellar of big stone crocks jam full.

Do you know--I think when we get up to Richmond you'll have to write a letter to the Colonel--a nice long letter, thanking him for all he's done.