As the month of November drew to a close and the day of his departure came near, Ran grew more and more uneasy. He had not heard a word from Judy for more than three weeks, though in that time he had written so many letters; nor had Mrs. Walling lately heard from Mrs. Moseley.
Ran was not of a temperament to borrow trouble. Quite the contrary; he always looked on the bright side. He was willing to make every allowance for the well-known uncertainty of the mails in those unsettled regions guarded by the frontier forts; but still it seemed strange and alarming that for a month past no mail had come safely through contingent dangers.
His greatest anxiety now was that he should have to sail for Europe without having heard from Judy.
He confided his trouble to Cleve and Palma, with whom he now spent every evening whenever they were at home.
One evening, about a week before he was to sail, he was sitting with Cleve and Palma in their tiny parlor.
Cleve had been reading aloud, but laid down his book on the entrance of Ran. Palma was knitting a woolen wristlet, the last of four pair that she had been making for Cleve and Mrs. Pole, and she continued to knit after greeting her cousin.
Ran brought a chair to the little table at which the other two sat, threw himself into it, sighed and said:
“This is Saturday night, the twenty-fifth, and in one week from to-day, on Saturday, the second of December, I must sail for England.”
“Yes, Cousin Randolph, I know. And I am very sorry it should be necessary that you should have to go—very. But you will soon return,” sympathetically replied Palma.
“It is about Judy,” frankly exclaimed Ran. “I have not had a letter from her for nearly a month.”