It was almost two weeks after Ernest went, before Dr. Morton, on his return from town one September evening, came up the walk excitedly waving a telegram.
“Oh!” exclaimed Chicken Little.
“He must have passed or Father wouldn’t look so pleased,” said Mrs. Morton.
The doctor came in slightly breathless.
“Well, Mother, I’m afraid you have lost your boy.”
Mrs. Morton looked startled for a moment, then, reassured by her husband’s smile, fumbled nervously for her glasses to read the yellow paper he handed her.
276She was maddeningly deliberate. Jane, perched upon the arm of her chair, tried to anticipate her, but her mother held it so she could not see.
“It’s Mother’s place to see it first, daughter.”
Reproving Chicken Little steadied Mrs. Morton’s nerves, and she read the few words aloud with dignity.
“Sworn in to-day–hurrah!” Ernest.