The captain sprang to his feet, “Comin'! Serena!” he shouted. “Comin'!”
He hurried out. Mr. Hungerford, left alone, helped himself to a cigar and strolled about the room. The pile of letters on the table caught his attention. Idly he turned the envelopes over, examining the addresses. All at once his interest became less casual; one of the written names had caught his attention.
Five minutes later the postman rang the doorbell. Captain Dan ran downstairs, entered the library, seized the letters from the table and hastened to hand them to the carrier.
“Daddy!” called Gertrude from above, “did you post my letter?”
“Sure!” was the prompt answer. “Just gave it to the mail man. It's on the road now.”
Serena's “nerves” were in much better condition the following day, and her spirits likewise. Gertrude, however, was still grave and absent-minded and non-communicative. Toward Mr. Hungerford in particular she was cool and distant, answering his chatty remarks and solicitous inquiries concerning her health with monosyllables, and, on several occasions, leaving the room when he entered it. This state of affairs was even more marked on the second day after Mr. Doane's abrupt departure, and still more so on the third. She seemed nervously expectant when the postman brought the mail, and depressed when each consignment contained no letter for her. On the fourth day this depression was so marked that her father asked the cause.
“What ails you, Gertie?” he inquired. “You look as if you just come from a funeral. What's wrong?”
Gertrude, who was standing by the window, looking out, answered without turning her head.
“Nothing,” she said shortly.
“Well, I'm glad of that. I thought you was troubled in your mind about somethin'. Ain't frettin' about John, are you?”