Sincerely yours,
C. S. Davenport.
“Isn’t that splendid, mother!” David began, and then stopped, for instead of joy there was an added sadness in his mother’s face.
“Yes, David, yes,” she answered, and quickly tried to assume cheerfulness. “Only—it will be harder than ever to part with you now.”
“I won’t go if you feel you need me, mother.”
“Of course you must go. You could not decline an offer made by one who wants to help you to carry out your dear father’s wishes.”
But David was still doubtful. “I wonder if I ought to go. I wonder if I oughtn’t to stay here and find work—”
“No, David, no. We must look to the future, dear. I couldn’t think of letting you sacrifice an opportunity so wonderfully offered. Who do you suppose is giving it to you, David?”
“I can’t imagine.—unless it’s Dr. Wallace.”
“Of course! That’s just who it is!” Mrs. Ives’s thoughts reverted to the sympathetic letter that he had written her. “Of course it’s Dr. Wallace. He’s taking this way of showing how much he thought of your father.”