“Wouldn't he? No, I cal'late you're right, Mother. We'll try not to.”
Other letters came, including one from Helen. It was not long. Mrs. Snow was a little inclined to feel hurt at its brevity. Her husband, however, did not share this feeling.
“Have you read it carefully, Mother?” he asked.
“Of course I have, Zelotes. What do you mean?”
“I mean—well, I tell you, Mother, I've read it three time. The first time I was like you; seemed to me as good a friend of Al and of us as Helen Kendall ought to have written more than that. The second time I read it I begun to wonder if—if—”
“If what, Zelotes?”
“Oh, nothin', Mother, nothin'. She says she's comin' to see us just as soon as she can get away for a day or two. She'll come, and when she does I cal'late both you and I are goin' to be satisfied.”
“But why didn't she WRITE more, Zelotes? That's what I can't understand.”
Captain Zelotes tugged at his beard reflectively. “When I wrote Fosdick the other day,” he said, “I couldn't write more than a couple of pages. I was too upset to do it. I couldn't, that's all.”
“Yes, but you are Albert's grandfather.”