"I guess not," mumbled Mr. Kimball, picking up a nicely browned wing, and munching it with every indication of enjoyment. "I guess not, Mrs. Kimball."
Clara and her mother now sat down, and the meal progressed merrily. Roger almost forgot the homesickness that had twinged him once or twice during the day. The supper was about over when some one knocked at the kitchen door, opening it at the same time and calling out:
"I brought your mail, neighbor Kimball."
"Thanks, Enberry," said the farmer, as he got up to take several letters which Mr. Took had brought from the post-office. "Won't ye set down 'n' hev a bite, Enberry?"
"No, thanks; got t' do my chores yit. How's th' drowned boy?"
"Oh, I'm all right," called out Roger, "and I'm much obliged for getting me home so quick."
"Allers willin' t' do a neighborly turn," said Mr. Took, as he went out.
"Hello!" exclaimed Roger's uncle, looking at the addresses on the envelopes by the light of the kerosene lamp, "Hello! Here's a letter for you, Mr. Roger Anderson."
"It's from mother," cried the boy, as he caught sight of the beloved writing, and for a few minutes he paid no attention to what went on around him, as he read the news from the dear ones at home. It told him all were well, and how they missed him greatly.
"Take good care of yourself," Mrs. Anderson wrote, "and, though I shall miss you very much, though we all miss you, we hope your visit to Cardiff will do you good."