“Read it--I--I can’t,” choked the old man.
She reached slowly for the sheet of paper and spread it on the table before her.
Dear Mother [Jehiel had written]: Just a word to tell you we are all O. K. and doing finely. Your letter reminded me that it was about time I was writing home to the old folks. I don’t mean to let so many weeks go by without a letter from me, but somehow the time just gets away from me before I know it.
Minnie is well and deep in spring sewing and house-cleaning. I know-- because dressmaker’s bills are beginning to come in, and every time I go home I find a carpet up in a new place!
Our boy Fred is eighteen to-morrow. You’d be proud of him, I know, if you could see him. Business is rushing. Glad to hear you’re all right and that father’s rheumatism is on the gain.
As ever, your affectionate and dutiful son, JEHIEL
Oh, by the way--about that visit East. I reckon we’ll have to call it off this year. Too bad; but can’t seem to see my way clear.
Bye-bye, J.
Harriet Clayton did not cry this time. She stared at the letter long minutes with wide-open, tearless eyes, then she slowly folded it and put it back in its envelope.
“Harriet, mebbe-” began the old man timidly.