A Fool There Was

by Porter Emerson Browne

She whirled about.

"You would?"

"I would."

"Well, I won't. And," she declared, lips tight pressed, jaw tight set, "I shall tell her."

Then from the house came Kathryn, happily, gaily. In her hand there was a letter, a letter with a foreign post-mark, a letter that, from its jagged end, had been torn open, with eager hands.

"A note from Jack!" she cried.

"What does he say?" demanded Elinor, tensely, her lithe fingers interwoven.

"Oh, terribly lonely," returned her sister—"trying so hard to finish his work and get back to us. I'm adding a postscript." She seated herself before the writing table. "Do you two want to send any messages?"

For a moment—for a long, long moment—did Mrs. VanVorst stand, silent, motionless. All that the thing meant that she was about to do, no one knew better than she. She stood, silent, eyes half closed, hands clenched. Blake watched her, shrewdly.

After a long, long time, she took a short step forward.