“Well, I’m going, sir! When I get through high school next Spring I’m going to find some work and make enough money to start, anyway! If I can make good on the football team this year maybe I’ll get an offer and college won’t cost me anything.”
“You let me hear of you doing anything like that,” said Mr. Morris grimly, “and I’ll take you out in the shed as I used to and just about take the hide off you. You ain’t too big yet, my boy!”
“He wouldn’t do a thing like that, father. He was just fooling, weren’t you, Will?”
“Lots of fellows do it,” muttered Willard.
“But you’re not to be one of them,” returned his father decisively. “Here, let me see those envelopes.”
Willard passed the packet across to him and watched glumly while his father slid off the faded blue ribbon that held the envelopes together. One by one Mr. Morris held them up and peered into them for the third or fourth time.
“Unless she meant to put some money or a check in one of these,” he murmured, “I can’t understand it.” He laid the six envelopes in a row on the cloth and shook his head over them. Then he took up the papers which, with the strange and disappointing legacy, had arrived from the West by the morning’s mail, but they told him nothing new. Grandmother Pierson’s will, a copy of which Cousin Joe had sent, was short and definite. There was a legacy of some personal trinkets and a small sum of money to an old family servant, and “To my grandson, Willard Morris, the contents of the packet inscribed with his name, which will be found in the mahogany workbox on the table in my bedchamber.” The rest of the estate, real and personal, was bequeathed in equal shares to Mrs. Morris’s two sisters. Cousin Joe’s letter was brief. In pursuance of his duties as executor of the estate, he was forwarding the legacy mentioned in the will; also a copy of the instrument in case they had forgotten its provisions. Willard was to sign the accompanying receipt; and Cousin Joe hoped they were all well.
The package had been done up in a piece of brown paper and tied with a white string—what Grandma Pierson would have called “tie yarn.” On the outside, in the old lady’s shaky writing, was the legend, “For my Grandson, Willard Morris.” Inside they had found six envelopes which, once white, had yellowed with age. The inscription on each was the same: “Miss Ellen Hilliard, Fayle’s Court House, Virginia,” and the postmarks showed various dates in the years 1850 and 1851. In the upper right-hand corner of each envelope was a stamp quite unlike any Mr. Morris had ever seen. Five were buff and one was blue. Each was round and about the size of a silver half dollar. They were printed in faded black. A circlet of stars ran around the outer edge and inside was the inscription, “Postoffice, Alexandria.” In the center was the word “Paid,” and under it a figure “5.”
“You say these were your father’s love letters, Jenny?” asked Mr. Morris.