“Did you write that letter to the Indian?” he said, and, as the other nodded, “Give it to me. I haven’t decided yet but I—I might need it.”
Jethro pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to him.
“No, no,” he cried, immediately after, “it is not the right thing at all for you to go. Do not think about it again. Here’s the train. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” said Hugh, still in doubt, “good-by and good luck.”
Jethro strode away down the platform just as the big locomotive came thundering in. Hugh was turning slowly toward the Pullman coaches at the further end when he heard quick short footsteps behind him and little Carl Ingmarsson very red and breathless came panting up.
“I wanted to say good-by,” he said; “we never knew you were going until Mother told us.” He laid his square, firm little hand in Hugh’s.
“It was good of you to come,” returned Hugh. “What did your mother say about my going?”
“She didn’t say much,” Carl replied, “I think she had been crying.”
“Crying?” echoed Hugh; “why?” This seemed the most amazing thing of all the surprises that had come to him.
“I think she didn’t want you to go,” the little boy answered, “I don’t understand it. She doesn’t often cry.”