“The right—no, the left.”
Priscilla shook her head. “You aren’t a very good guesser, are you? But I’ll give it to you this time. It’s not fat, but it looks nice. He didn’t even get out, that postman didn’t; he just tucked the letter in the box as he rode along.”
“Certain sure he didn’t tuck any other letter in too, Pris?” queried Laura.
The child held out empty hands.
“That’s no proof. Your eyes are too bright.” Laura turned her around gently. “Oh, I thought so! Stuck in your dress. From Bob!”
“Two,” squealed Priscilla, with an emphatic little hop. “Here, give ’em to Mother. They’re ’dressed to her. Now let’s get into ’em, quick. Shall I ring the bell, Mother, to call in Father and the rest? 126 Two letters from Bob is a great big emergency; don’t you think so?”
The words filtered negligently through Elliott’s inattention. All her conscious thoughts were centered on her father’s handwriting. She had had a cable before, but this was his first letter. It almost made her cry to see the familiar script and know that she could get nothing but letters from him for a whole long year. No hugs, no kisses, no rumpling of her hair or his, no confidential little talks—no anything that had been her meat and drink for years. How did people endure such separations? A big lump came up in her throat and the tears pricked her eyes; but she swallowed very hard and blinked once or twice and vowed, “I won’t cry, I won’t!”
And then suddenly, through her preoccupation, she became aware of a hush fallen on the bubbling expectancy of the room. Glancing up from the page, she saw Henry standing in the doorway. 127 Even to unfamiliar eyes there was something strangely arresting in the boy’s look, a shocked gravity that cut like a premonition.
“They say Ted Gordon’s been killed,” he said.
“Ted—Gordon!” cried Laura.