"Just a word, my son," the gentle voice called.
"I've nothing to say, sir! We're packing our trunks to leave at once."
"Yes, yes, I understand," the father answered tenderly. "You're going, of course, and it can't be helped—but just a minute, my son; we must say good-by in a decent way, you know—and—I've something to show you before you go"—the voice broke—"you—won't try to leave without seeing me?"
There was a short silence and the answer came in friendly tones:
"I'll see you. I'll be down in a few minutes."
The father murmured:
"Thank God!"
He hurried back to the library, unlocked a tiny drawer in the desk, drew out a plain envelope from which he took the piece of paper on which was scrawled the last message from the boy's mother. His hand trembled as he read and slowly placed it in a small pigeon-hole.
He took his pen and began to write rapidly on a pad of legal cap paper.