The mail brought letters to John and one to Phillip—at least, it resembled a letter in outward appearance. But when, in the seclusion of his room, Phillip tore it madly open, he found only a small photograph. But he didn’t seem disappointed. On the back of the picture were the words, penned in large, stylish and very illegible characters, “Phillip from Betty.” Although he kept it in the breast pocket of his jacket all day—and for many days thereafter—and referred to it surreptitiously whenever occasion allowed, it was not exhibited to any one, not even to John. The latter’s letters were from his mother and David. The former spoke encouragingly of his father’s health. The letter was written from Mentone.
“The doctor spent Friday and Saturday with us here and was much pleased with your father’s condition. He says that if the improvement continues until spring there will be no good reason for staying abroad longer than April. Of course your father is delighted; he is already busy planning for the trip home. I hope the excitement will not undo any of the good work, and I do hope above all else that he won’t be disappointed. I, too, dearest, will be glad to get home once more. It seems ages and ages since we left. The doctor even thinks that next winter your father can safely remain there, in some mild climate like Asheville or Aiken. That seems almost too much to hope for, doesn’t it? But we shall see. I think we shall close up the Worcester house, John, for it seems scarcely worth while keeping it up unless you expect to be there for any length of time in the Summer. Your father talks of going into the Adirondacks, and if we do, of course we shall want you to be with us all the time, or as much of the time as you can give us. He sends his love and a little present, which must do for both of us, since I really don’t know what to give you, dearest, that you would care for. I hope you are enjoying your visit in Virginia. Your father wants you to write and tell him about the country there, and says you’re to stop and see Mr. Corliss on your way back.”
John placed the check in his pocketbook and thoughtfully nibbled a corner of the letter, staring out of the hall window across the pleasant, peaceful prospect of sunny hill and valley. It was mid-morning, and the frozen crust of earth was softening under the warmth of the sun; the file of turkeys as they picked their way across the drive left three-pronged footprints on the gravel. In the trees the birds were chirping busily.
“Coming back,” John muttered. “Jove, that’s good news! And—yes, I think I can manage it!” He smiled as though well pleased with his thoughts, and opened David’s epistle. This was characteristically brief and to the point. Life had been going very slowly with the writer and he blamed it all on John’s absence. He wished the latter a Merry Christmas, and informed him that he had bought a present for him—it didn’t amount to much—and that he would have sent it if he hadn’t misplaced it somewhere.
“But I’ll look it up and have it ready for you when you arrive,” he wrote. “You’re coming Sunday. Don’t forget. If you don’t come I swear I’ll go down to Virginia and bring you back bodily. Also I’ll give you a damned good hiding.
“Yours faith’ly,
“David.”
“P. S.—The governor has presented me with a dangerous-looking automobile thing. It is a lovely crimson. You pull things and it goes. I can make it go finely, but I haven’t found out yet how to stop it. When you come we’ll try it in the park.
“P. S. No. 2.—How’s Margaret?”
Dinner was an event that day. The overseer was there and a certain “Uncle Bob,” a younger brother of Mrs. Ryerson, who lived in Richmond. In the evening a handful of young persons of both sexes came out from Melville and there was an informal dance, and, what pleased “Uncle Bob” much more, a monstrous bowl of punch which stood in the hall wreathed with holly and mistletoe.