"I brought her a big letter with all those little ones and a note in it, and they are from the Paget man," I explained to him. "But she won't even read the note, and see what he writes. She says she's afraid."
"Poor child! No wonder!" said Laddie, sitting beside her and putting his arm around her. "Suppose I read it for you. May I?"
"Yes," said Shelley. "You read it. Read it out loud. I don't care."
She leaned against him, while he unfolded the white sheet.
"Umph!" he said. "This DOES look bad for you. It begins: 'My own darling Girl.'"
"Let me see!" cried Shelley, suddenly straightening, and reaching her hand.
Laddie held the page toward her, but she only looked, she didn't offer to touch it.
"'My own darling Girl:'" repeated Laddie tenderly, making it mean just all he possibly could, because he felt so dreadfully sorry for her—"'On my return to Chicago, from the trip to England I have so often told you I intended to make some time soon——'"
"Did he?" asked mother.
"Yes," answered Shelley. "He couldn't talk about much else. It was his first case. It was for a friend of his who had been robbed of everything in the world; honour, relatives, home, and money. If Robert won it, he got all that back for his friend and enough for himself—that he could—a home of his own, you know! Read on, Laddie!"