sang the clear tenor voice, and Jim Hathaway, on his big brown horse, came galloping up to the door.
"There's only one letter for you to-day, Uncle Henry," announced Marjorie, taking the handful of letters and papers from the boy. "It's a big fat one, though. Perhaps it's from Elsie; you haven't had one letter from Elsie since you came."
"It is from your Aunt Julia," said Mr. Carleton, and immediately proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents, while Jim galloped away to the stables, and Marjorie went on with her hat trimming.
It was, as Marjorie had said, a "fat letter," and it took Mr. Carleton some time to read it. Indeed, he read some parts over more than once, before he finally put it in his pocket, and prepared to light a cigar. "Are Aunt Julia and Elsie well?" Marjorie inquired, politely. She could not help wondering why this aunt and cousin never sent any messages to her.
"Oh, yes, they are very well, thank you. Your aunt says it has been rather warm for the season, and there hasn't been much going on."
Mr. Carleton relapsed into silence, and Marjorie said no more. Her thoughts were filled by a new idea. What if a surgeon could really be found who would be able to cure Aunt Jessie? Such a possibility seemed almost too wonderful to be contemplated, and yet,—and yet—
The whistle of a distant train broke the stillness, and Marjorie came down from her air castle to remark—
"There goes the East Bound; two hours late to-day."
"You seem as much interested in the hours of trains as if you were in the habit of traveling on one at least once a week," said Mr. Carleton, smiling. "How would you like to take a journey—to go to New York, for instance?"
"I should love it better than anything in the world," said Marjorie frankly.