"Your loving son, "Frank."
The Truth of the Matter
In a flash of insight Rosemary divined the truth. The gold hidden behind the loose brick in the chimney was hers, given to her by her dead father. And she had not even a postage stamp!
But swiftly her anger died away in joy--a joy that surged and thrilled through her as some white, heavenly fire that warmed her inmost soul. Not alone, but cared for--sheltered, protected, loved. "Oh," breathed Rosemary, with her eyes shining; "Father, dear father--my father, taking care of me!" Then, in her thought, she added, without dreaming of irreverence, "I think God must be like that!"