“I am often glad that I belong to a religion whose priests do not marry,” said the doctor. “Let me get you Lee’s papers.”
They made but a small bundle and most of them were bills, unreceipted. Vickers drew out one with an American stamp. It was dated Hilltop, Connecticut. Vickers read:
“My Dear Son: I enclose the money you desire for your journey home, which Nellie and I have managed to save during the last three months. I can hardly realize that I am to see you again after almost ten years.”
Vickers looked up. “Why, the poor beggar,” he said, “he was just going home after ten years. I call that hard luck.” And then his eye lit on the date of the letter, which was many months old. “By Jove, no. He took the old man’s money and blew it in, instead. Isn’t that the limit? But who is Nellie?”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and Vickers returned to the perusal of the papers. “Bills, bills, notes, letters from women. I seem to recognize that hand, but no matter. Ah, here is another from home. Ten years old, too.”
The writing was feminine, neat, and childish.
“Dear Bob,” it said, “if you left home on my account, you need not have gone.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“Nellie.”
There was a moment’s silence. A feeling of envy swept over Vickers. The mere sight of an American stamp made him homesick; the mail from the States never brought him anything; and yet somewhere at home there was a girl who would write like that to a worthless creature like Lee.