“But now,” Dorothy hastened to add, “we can send them both at Christmas time something really worth while.”
“Something warm to wear,” said Tavia, more than ordinarily thoughtful. “They have to go through the cold streets to work in all weathers.”
It seemed odd, but Dorothy noticed that her chum remained rather serious all that day. In the evening Nat came in with the mail bag and dumped its contents on the hall table. This was just before dinner and usually the cry of “Mail!” up the stairway brought most of the family into the big entrance hall.
Down tripped Tavia with the other girls; Ned lounged in from the library; Joe and Roger appeared, although they seldom had any letters, only funny postal cards from their old-time chums at Dalton and from local school friends.
Mrs. White took her mail off to her own room. She walked without her crutch now, but favored the lame ankle. Joe seized upon his father’s mail and ran to find him.
Nat sorted the letters out swiftly. Everybody had a few. Suddenly he hesitated as he picked up a rather coarse envelope on which Tavia’s name was scrawled. In the upper left-hand corner was written: “L. Petterby.”
“Great Peter!” he gasped, shooting a questioning glance at Tavia. “Does that cowpuncher write to you still?”
Perhaps there was something like an accusation in Nat’s tone. At least, it was not just the tone to take with such a high-spirited person as Tavia. Her head came up and her eyes flashed. She reached for the letter.
“Isn’t that nice!” she cried. “Another from dear old Lance. He’s such a desperately determined chap.”
At first the other young folk had not noted Nat’s tone or Tavia’s look. But the young man’s next query all understood: