“My Dear Boy:
“Dr. Jones has just told me it can be only a question of days now. I have been studying whether to send for you or not. Father settled the question for me. He said he wanted sorrowfully to see you, but in view of the things that must be told you, it would be too painful an ordeal for all of us. He said to tell you you were very precious to him–as precious as if you had really been his own son.”
Chicken Little gave a little cry. “Sherm, what does she mean?”
“Read it all.”
“For, Sherm, you are not our own. If Father could have lived, we never intended you to know 370this–at least not until you were a man and had made a place for yourself. But Father’s illness is leaving us penniless. Sue’s husband has offered Grace and myself a home with them, but he thinks you must be told the truth–that it is only fair to you. We took you when you were about two and a half years old under very peculiar circumstances. It was while we were still living in New York, and Sue was a tot of five. We were going up to my father’s in Albany and were a little late. Father told the hackman to drive fast; he’d give him an extra dollar if he’d catch the train. The man had been drinking and drove recklessly. He was just dashing round the corner to the station–the train was already whistling–when he knocked down, and ran over, a woman with a child in her arms. The child was pitched to one side and escaped with a few bruises. The woman never regained consciousness. You have probably guessed that you were that child. We could never find out who she was, though we advertised for several weeks. We decided to bring you up with Sue, and when we moved to Centerville, soon after, no one knew you were not our own child. We had you baptized Sherman after the great general who had just won his way to notice then. I have saved the clothing you wore, and a brooch and wedding ring of your mother’s. I will send them to you, together with a hundred dollars, which is all I can 371 give you to start you on your way.” The remainder of the letter was filled with her grief over parting with her husband, and her separation from Sherm himself.
Chicken Little swallowed hard–something seemed to be gripping her by the throat.
“And your father isn’t your father, Sherm?–or your mother or Sue or Grace?” The tragic extent of what had happened was dawning slowly upon Jane.
Sherm’s lips trembled.