Hazel gave him a kiss, and holding the book declared, “I will keep it sacredly until Christmas.”
She walked down the stairs with him. “You’ll take good care of my mother at the church, won’t you?” she asked, squeezing his hand, “She works so hard. She says she’s saving to send me to college, and now I’ll lose a whole year at school. It troubles me.”
“Why, it mustn’t trouble you, little girl,” said the minister. They reached the street and he looked down at her anxious face. “We will look after your mother. The ladies will see that she gets work. That is the only way that we can help her, for she will take nothing that she does not earn.”
Then he raised his hat and bade the child good-bye.
It was nearing the time of departure—Thursday, and the ship sailed Saturday. The trunk was packed for the last time, with Mrs. Tyler’s gifts, a box of writing-paper and a dictionary, on top.
“I hope you will write me a little every day, Hazel,” her mother said. “It will be good practice for you. Mail the letters once or twice a week, but write a little every day.”
“It will be like a diary,” said Hazel.
“Yes, dear.”
“And you’ll write often to me, Mother, won’t you?”
“I’ll write often, but you will write without waiting for an answer. That will be your gift to me.”