“No-o,” her mother said, with pursed lips. “No, honey. The other comes first, I reckon.”
It was a letter typewritten upon her cousin's letter-head; but it was not dictated by Mr. Adair MacKenzie. Instead, it was from Mr. MacKenzie's secretary, who stated that her employer had gone to Mexico on business that might detain him for several weeks.
“A letter addressed by you to Mr. MacKenzie arrived after his departure and is being held for him with other personal communications until his return; but being assured that you are the Jessie Adair Blake, now Sherwood—to whom the enclosed letter from Scotland is addressed, I take the liberty of forwarding the same. The Scotch letter reached us after Mr. MacKenzie's departure, likewise. Will you please acknowledge the receipt of the enclosure and oblige?”
This much of the contents of the secretary's letter was of particular interest to the Sherwoods. Momsey's voice shook a little as she finished reading it. Plainly she was disappointed.
“Cousin Adair, I am sure, would have suggested something helpful had he been at home,” she said sadly. “It, it is a great disappointment, Robert.”
“Well, well!” replied Mr. Sherwood, perhaps not without some secret relief. “It will all come out right. At least, your cousin hasn't refused his assistance. We shall be established somewhere before he returns from his Mexican trip.”
“I, I did depend so much upon Adair's good will and advice,” signed Momsey.
“But, dear me suz!” gasped Nan impatiently. “What are you folks bothering over that for? It isn't Cousin Adair that I want to know about. It's this letter, Momsey,” and she seized the thin yet important envelope from Scotland and shook it before her mother's eyes.
“Better look into it, Momsey,” advised Mr. Sherwood easily, preparing to return to the cinder sifting. “Maybe it's from some of your relatives in the Old Country. I see 'Blake' printed in the corner. Didn't your father have an uncle or somebody, who was steward on the estate of a Scotch Laird of some renown?”
“Heck, mon!” cried Momsey, with her usual gaiety, and throwing off the cloud of gloom that had momentarily subdued her spirit. “Ye air a wise cheil. Ma faither talked muckle o' Uncle Hughie Blake, remimberin' him fra' a wee laddie when his ain faither took him tae Scotland, and tae Castle Emberon, on a veesit.”