“Haven’t the least idea,” said her sister as she handed her the message she had written.
Edith glanced at it, took a dollar bill from her purse, and gave it and the message to the elevator boy who had answered her ring. “You’ll probably get the answer in the morning, Alice.” She turned to her sister as she closed the door. “You’ll bring it right down to me, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And not a word to Donald—that goes without saying. I wouldn’t have him know for anything.”
“All right. Billy is probably all right by this time, anyhow. As soon as you know that he is, I advise you to sit down and write him a nice, sensible letter—tell him you have reconsidered, and all that. You certainly owe it to him.”
“I will, Alice. I ought to have done it long ago. There’s the bell,” she added, wearily. “It’s probably mother.”
CHAPTER IX
It was on a cold raw morning, that William West arrived in Denver, and, as he made his way slowly from the sleeper to the waiting ’bus, he shivered under his heavy overcoat. He was not glad to be back. Denver and all its associations had faded into the pale background of past memories—his face was set toward the future, a future that promised all that joy of living, of loving and of being loved in return, which he so eagerly desired.