And though he fares with slowest feet,
Joy runs to meet him, drawing near;
The birds are heralds of his cause,
And like a never-ending rhyme
The roadsides bloom in his applause,
Who bides his time.”
J. W. Riley.
Have you had bad news from home?” asked Ralph, taking the letter which Ivy held towards him.
“Yes,” she said, in a broken voice. “They have had to move my grandfather to the hospital.”
It was but too clear, as Ralph at once perceived from the letter, that the old Professor was never likely to recover, and that Ivy’s home had ceased to exist. The landlady wrote to demand rent, and since it was impossible to pay this, there would doubtless be a sale of the Professor’s few belongings.