A smile hovered about his father's lips. "May I ask in what direction?—To see Charlotte?"
Their eyes met. "Yes, to see Charlotte," Francis answered.
"When do you go?"
"Sometime to-morrow."
"I wish you good luck, my son."
"So he, too, has guessed," thought Frank.
When he was alone, he took out a letter which bore evidence of more than one reading. Its date showed it to be a year old.
"I am going away," the letter said, "to be gone a long time,—at least a year. By then my fate ought to be decided. I am trying to hope, as Dr. Baird assures me I may, trying to live entirely in the present. It is not easy, but how can I make any plans for the future when a possible life of helplessness lies before me? You are generous, and I know you will forgive if this causes you pain. Forget—everything but that I am always your friend,
"Marion Carpenter.
"I have told no one where I am going, as it seems best to make as complete a break as possible with my life here. Dr. Baird, of course, knows."