Hon. James Cabot, Daleford, Conn.
I leave for home this afternoon by the one-forty train.
Mary Cabot.
“Why, papa, it is my telegram! How slow it has been!”
“When did you send it?”
“I gave it to Sam Elliott about nine o’clock this morning, and it wouldn’t be like him to forget it.”
“No, and probably he did not forget it. It only waited at the Bingham station a few hours to get its breath before starting on a six-mile walk.”
But he was glad to know she had sent the message. Suddenly she wheeled about on his knee and inserted her fingers between his collar and his neck, an old trick of her childhood and still employed when the closest attention was required. “But how did you know I was coming?”
“I did not.”
“But you sent for me.”