She flushed happily and patted his hand. “So you are really going to stay with your old aunt for a while and not run off to the woods again and get—have something horrible happen to you?”
“No. I have too much to do here,” he replied. “I wonder—did you see any letters for me—?”
“Only three, Davy. Two of them are apparently from your Mr. Avery, judging by the post-mark—Tramworth—and the handwriting on the envelopes. The other had Bernard, White & Bascomb’s return address on it. I called up Walter Bascomb and told him the doctor had forbidden you any excitement or business. He said the letter was of no particular importance.”
“Yes,” said David, gazing at the familiar buildings as they drove along in the cool of the evening. “By the way, Aunt Bess, did you happen to find a little brown box among my things?”
“No, Davy. I looked over everything carefully. I don’t remember having seen it. There were some things came from a hotel downtown. They telephoned to me. I told them to send the things, and your bill.”
“That’s so. I’d forgotten about that hotel.”
He was silent until they reached the house, where he politely refused William’s proffered assistance up the steps. He took his aunt’s arm playfully; “Just as though I needed to,” he said. “I’ll keep you busy enough, William, for I’ll need the carriage every day now.”
After dinner, while they were sitting in the unlighted drawing-room, he asked for his letters. “I’ll get them,” he said, springing up, but his aunt restrained him with gentle insistence.
“Davy, you mustn’t jump up like that till you’re stronger.”
She brought the letters and turned on the lights, coming to him anxiously as she noted the accentuated pallor caused by his attempt to forestall her courtesy.