"I did think so, Mother." He gulped. "I got mixed up. If you think so, it feels true, doesn't it?"
"We told him it wasn't to-day. But he kept thinking so."
Catherine remembered the dash he had made through the hall to her bedroom, his halt at the door, his long stare at her. Poor boy!
"You better sit down, son," she said. "Here comes dessert."
Later, when she bade them good night, his arms tightened about her neck.
"You said to-morrow," he whispered, "and I thought maybe it was to-morrow. Because to-morrow is to-day, always, when it gets here."
"We can write letters to each other," said Catherine, rubbing her cheek softly against his hair. "Won't that be fun? We never wrote to each other."
"With my own name on the envelope?"
"Yes, sir." Catherine felt him relax into pleased contemplation of envelopes with his own name.