II
Stephen's letter that awaited her when she came home from school the next afternoon was a one-page scrawl. 'My head is ringing so with the quinine I've taken that I can't write to-night. By to-morrow I shall probably be rid of this beastly cold. I want to tell you about a book I've just read. It's great stuff.' He added a postscript: 'Don't ask me, dear, if I wore my rubbers day before yesterday. You know I didn't.'
In Eunice's eyes was a smile of amused tenderness as she put the letter back in its envelope. If the cold were 'beastly,' perhaps he might remember next time. She was afraid though that only married men wore rubbers.
No letter came the next day, or the next.
'If I don't hear to-morrow, I'll telegraph.'
'He's probably busy,' said her mother.
'I'm afraid he's sick.'
Eunice waited for the postman on Saturday morning, but he brought her no letter. She put on her hat and coat.
'I'll be back in a half hour, mother.'
As she went down the steps a boy riding a bicycle stopped at the curb. He handed her a telegram. It was from Stephen's landlady. Stephen had died that morning at two o'clock—of pneumonia.