“I’m corporal,” said Thistle, pompously. “Let me have it, dear.”
“Perhaps I should read it myself,” said Alma, pettishly, thus prolonging the agony. “It is so—personal.”
“Yes, do,” begged Wyn, coiling and uncoiling in sheer expectancy.
“Here’s a seat,” offered Betta.
“The sun’s there,” warned Thistle amiably. “Take this seat, Alma,” and she moved over so generously, the bench all but tipped end on end.
Every one waited. Alma took out her letter—it was in her crocheted bag and one could see how she treasured it.
What a thrill!
But Treble pinched Betta and almost spoiled the start.
“I received it this morning,” said Alma, “and, of course, it didn’t come through the mail.”
“How?” asked Wyn.