Telegrams in Bayport usually mean death or desperate illness. I laughed.
“No one is dead, Hephzy,” I replied. “In fact it is barely possible that someone is coming to life. I telegraphed Mr. Campbell to engage passage for you and me on some steamer leaving for Europe next week.”
Hephzibah turned pale. The partially knitted sock dropped beside the circular.
“Why—why—what—?” she gasped.
“On a steamer leaving next week,” I repeated. “You want to travel, Hephzy. Jim says I must. So we'll travel together.”
She did not believe I meant it, of course, and it took a long time to convince her. But when at last she began to believe—at least to the extent of believing that I had sent the telegram—her next remark was characteristic.
“But I—I can't go, Hosy,” declared Hephzibah. “I CAN'T. Who—who would take care of the cat and the hens?”