Yes, that would be it! She would write to that rich uncle that she knew so little of. He was rich, and he might help Frank. He might help them all. But she must never let Frank know—Frank, nor Mother, nor Father. Surely it would not be wrong to write on the quiet for a good cause like this. For three days she had thought and thought and worried, before she told her sisters of her plan.
“I’m glad you’ve told me all this, Frank, and I think you’re—you’re splendid,” cried Mollie, dashing away the tears; “and I only wish I could do something for you. You’ll have to keep on hoping and wishing, and some day something good may happen.”
“Yes, some day,” echoed Frank. “I hope so. But we’d better go in to tea, Mollie,” he said, cheerfully, “and then I’m going to bed early, to get ready for a big day to-morrow.”
Frank never knew that, long after he was asleep, Mollie went to his box and carefully examined his clothes, noting all the patched and darned shirts and socks, and wondering if he could make those last until he could go away.
“If only he could go before he has to get any more new clothes, and then he could get a nice new supply for his studies,” thought Mollie with shining eyes. “Oh, I do hope that I can manage to fix up things!”
Frank slept calmly on—the sleep of the tired, never dreaming that any factors were at work to bring him nearer his heart’s desire.
CHAPTER III.
THE LETTER.
“Whatever shall we say?”
They had been trying for the last three hours, and were getting quite out of patience.
“Go on, Mollie, have another try.”