At the supper table that evening father and son were sitting alone, as usual. The son was talkative, but the father was silent; so silent that Cyrus, at last discouraged by the complete indifference of a usually sympathetic audience, became silent himself.
And the father had abundant material for thought. He was trying to understand how the message in the letter had reached the boy. By what mysterious agency had this yearning of a woman's heart stirred the brain of the far away Cyrus? Could there be a harmony between these two spirits so intimate as to render the written word superfluous? These were questions he tried in vain to answer.
When the meal was finished and Joanna began to clear away the things, Dr. Alton surprised her by asking if Cyrus had a good suit of clothes.
"A good suit of clothes! Of course he has!"
"I mean, a nice new suit, that is becoming to him."
"He has that pretty dark suit with the wide collar that he wears Sundays."
"Yes,—yes—I know—but would that be good enough to wear in New York."
"In New York? Is Cyrus going to New York?" And there was a ring of dismay in Joanna's voice.
"I think so."
"When?"