“Three days ago,” said Edith, with quivering lips, “I got a letter from him. He’d been writing me every day up to then. That letter told me that he had appendicitis, and had gone to a hospital in Denver to be operated on. It was written last Thursday—that’s six days ago. Since then, I haven’t heard a single word.”
Alice appeared greatly relieved. “Is that all?” she cried. “I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. When anyone is lying flat on his back in a hospital, he doesn’t feel much like writing letters. Appendicitis isn’t very dangerous. I’ve known any number of people that have had it.”
“I know, but I can’t help worrying. I don’t know what to do.”
“I should think the first thing you would do would be to sit down and write him that letter.”
“I don’t dare to.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Suppose something has happened to him. How can I know who might get the letter? I don’t dare to write the things I’ve got to say to him.”
Alice considered a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you’d better. I didn’t think of that. Can’t you find out, some way, how he is?”
“I don’t know a soul in Denver.”