For if the handwriting on the envelope was strange, that of the shaky penciled scrawl inside was not quite familiar either. Yet it was Chummy's. He had had a bit of a spill, he said, but nothing to hurt. Rather shaken, but nothing broken. She was not to come up, as he would be out and up again before she could get there.
And that was all. There was no address at the head of the letter, and he did not say who had addressed the envelope for him, nor why.
"Oh, Mollie, he's hurt!" broke agitatedly from Joan.
Mollie was writing a letter at the little round table where the workbasket stood. Quietly she rose and passed her arm about the girl.
"Yes, darling, but he's quite all right," she calmed her.
"Have you heard from Philip, then? What is it? What does he say?" the words came with a rush.
Mollie had not heard from Philip that morning. That was why she was writing her letter. But she said she had heard from him. She meant the letter she had received on Friday afternoon.
"And somebody's had to write the address for him!" Joan's voice became more unsteady still. "Oh, that means he's badly hurt! I must go at once!"
"Nonsense, dear. Anyway, there are no trains on Sunday. May I see what he says, or——?"