"I'm sure that's very flattering," returned Mrs. Fabian.
Phil did not speak. His straight brows were knit in perplexity, and his lips were set in the look of longing that his mother knew.
"I don't know this writing from New York," said Mrs. Sidney, opening the next letter.
Glancing over it she gave a startled exclamation.
"Whew!" breathed the boy, reading over her shoulder. "Poor Aunt Mary!"
"Isabel, Aunt Mary has gone!" exclaimed Mrs. Sidney.
"What! I didn't know she was ill. She wasn't ill. Who is there to attend to things? Who wrote you?"
"Eliza Brewster. This is from her. It was very sudden. She had been at work at her easel an hour before. How sad it seems! How lonely! I wish we had both been there, Isabel. There is the letter." Phil took it across to Mrs. Fabian. "You see. She was buried day before yesterday. Oh, I'm glad we had that little interchange in the summer. Eliza loves her, but, after all, she is not her own."
Phil mechanically opened another letter. His thoughts were with that unknown relative with cravings like to his, working through the gathering years toward a goal which had ever retreated before her. He unfolded a business letter. It enclosed a small sealed envelope addressed to himself in another handwriting.