"Dear Uncle Winthrop—is your headache better?" she asked with gentle solicitude.
"A little," he said gravely.
It was a very quiet meal. Although Mr. Winthrop Adams had a delicate appearance, he was rarely ill. Now there were deep rings under his eyes, and the utter depression was sad indeed to behold.
Doris nearly always ran in the study and gossiped girlishly about the morning's employments. Now she sauntered out on the porch. There was neither music nor writing class. She wondered if she had better sew. She was learning to do that quite nicely, but the stocking still remained a puzzle.
"Doris," said a gentle voice through the open window; and the sadness pierced her heart.
She rose and went in. Solomon lay on his cushion in the corner, and even he, she thought, had a troubled look in his eyes. Uncle Win sat by the table, and there lay Cary's letter.
She put her arms about his neck and pressed her soft warm cheek against his, so cool that it startled her.
"My clear little Doris," he began. "I am childless. I have no son. Cary has gone away, against my wishes, in the face of my prohibition. I do not suppose he will ever return alive. And so I have given him up, Doris"—his voice failed him. He had meant to say, "You are all I have."
"Uncle Win—may I tell you—I saw him yesterday in the afternoon. And he told me he had enlisted——"
"Oh, then, you know!" The tone somehow grew harder.