Mr. Conant erased the star.
Grandma pursed her lips as she read the next letter to herself.
"Land sakes, Idy, I'll be a bushy-whiskered old man by the time ye make that one out."
"Oh, it's easy to make out," she replied. "The writing's beautiful. It's to you, Clarence." She held it up for all to see. Then she cleared her throat:
"Dear Sir:
"I cut a picture from the state paper yesterday of Misty's filly, born Sunday, March 11th. The caption said she was foaled at an animal hospital, but I am hoping that someone in your town can give me more information about her. Is she healthy? And is she for sale?"
There was a stunned silence. Grandpa's face went red and the cords of his neck bulged.
Mr. Conant looked at him in alarm. "Mr. Beebe," he said, "I know the answer to that one. If you'll allow me, I'd like to do the replying."
Grandpa didn't trust himself to speak. He managed a nod of thanks.
"Grandma, try another!" Maureen urged.