He turned the heavy pages and showed pictures of two pretty girls, with long, curling hair. The pictures were of a bygone time, old-fashioned and rather strange to the Curlytops. But they could see that Mr. Cardwell thought a great deal of them and of the albums.
“And here is another picture we prize highly,” said the elderly neighbor. “It’s a picture of my brother’s boy Tom. He was only eighteen,” and he turned to the photograph of a fine-looking lad.
“Did he die, too?” asked Mrs. Martin softly.
“Yes—at least, we suppose so,” said Mr. Cardwell gently. “He went away to be a sailor. His ship was sunk and we never heard anything more from him. I suppose the poor young fellow died at sea. This is the only picture of him, and I know how badly my brother would feel if it were lost. So will you take charge of these old family albums, Mr. Martin, and deliver them in Bentville?”
“Yes, I’ll be very careful of them,” promised Mr. Martin. “I know what it means to lose such things.”
“Didn’t they ever find the boy who was lost at sea?” asked Ted, to whom this little story appealed greatly.
“No, Ted, we never heard a word from him,” sighed Mr. Cardwell. “I suppose the sea has him. He is as much lost as my dear little twin girls are,” and he turned back to the pictures of the children.
“I have a small chest, or box, down at the store, Mr. Cardwell,” said Mr. Martin, as the caller was about to leave. “I’ll put your albums in that chest so they will be safe.”
“Thank you. Tell my brother, when you see him, why I sent them to him this way—I didn’t like to trust the mails or the express, and I won’t be out to Bentville myself until fall.”
“I’ll tell him,” was the promise.