“What’s the matter, Mother? Nothing wrong with Father is there?”
Ernest had recognized his father’s writing on the closely written sheets.
“No, dear, just some perplexing business. Sit down and I’ll read it to you—but don’t mention the matter to anyone yet.”
Ernest came close to his mother, putting his arm affectionately about her shoulders.
“Don’t look so solemn, Mother,” he protested.
“Am I looking solemn? Well, I do feel worried. Listen to this:
“My dear Wife,
“I was glad to get your letter of the 8th with the welcome news that you are all well and that Marian is getting about again. I have important news for you and for Frank. I am writing to him by the same mail. I have bought the ranch! A really choice one, I believe, and so cheap it must surely double in value in ten years. There is an entire section, and good water for house and stock—a wonderful big spring in a little rocky dell shaded by a great oak tree hundreds of years old. It will charm you all. Chicken Little will want to set up housekeeping under it immediately and you and Marian would find it a lovely cool nook for a summer afternoon. The big spring widens into a brook twenty feet below and goes singing away over the stones. A good-sized spring house has been built over it and crocks of butter and milk and great melons are set right in the cold running water. You never saw such a refrigerator. The place has magnificent orchards, peach, apple and cherry with grapes and blackberries also.
“Tell Chicken Little I saw a flock of quail in the apple orchard. Our baby quail got tangled in the long grass as he tried to scurry away and I picked him up. He was a jolly soft little brown ball with the brightest eyes. I would have liked to bring him home to the child but I was afraid I couldn’t care for him. Tell her though I have a most astonishing present for her and she can never guess what it is, if she lies awake every night till I come. But to return to the ranch—it has two hundred acres of fine farming land, unlimited pasture, and a heavily timbered creek crossing it diagonally. The details I must give you when I get home. You have never seen a lovelier sight than the prairies at this time of year—I counted thirty-seven different kinds of flowers in one spot. Chicken Little would love the little sensitive plants that curl up their leaves when you touch them and open them again when they think you are gone. But I have forgotten the houses—there are two—which I suppose you and Marian will consider the most important of all.”