“Thank you, Jane, for–for waiting.” His voice broke pitifully.
When Dr. Morton discovered the next morning that Sherm was not to be moved from his purpose, he decided to go into town early and see if by any chance there might be another telegram or a letter. Letters from the east sometimes came down by a branch line from the north. There was nothing, and he finally resolved to telegraph Mrs. Dart as to Sherm’s state of mind. Sherm was to come later in the day with Frank in time to catch the evening train, which was the only one that made close connections at Kansas City. It was late afternoon before he received a reply. The message was emphatic. “Sherm must await letter.”
“Mrs. Dart evidently knows her own mind,” thought the Doctor. He drove a little way out of town and waited for Frank and Sherm. Chicken Little was with them. He gave the boy this second message, explaining what he had done. Sherm read 367it over and over, as if he hoped in some way to find a reason for his mother’s decision lurking between the lines.
At length he said stolidly: “I’ll wait till to-morrow. Perhaps the letter will come to-night.”
They talked it over and Sherm and Chicken Little went on to town with the light buggy to wait for the mail, while Dr. Morton and Frank drove home.
There was a handful of letters in the box. Sherm took them out hastily.
“I guess this is it,” he said, stuffing one into his pocket. “And here’s three for you.”
“Three? Whoever from?” Jane held out her hand. “Ernest and Katy–and here’s another with an Annapolis postmark. Who do you suppose?”
Sherm glanced over her shoulder. “That’s Carol Brown’s handwriting.”
“Carol?–writing to me? How funny!”