"Your loving son,
"GORDON.
"P.S.—It occurs to me I have not told you all the news I would have liked to tell you. But two pieces occur to me at the moment. First, that achievement in life demands not the fostering of the gentler human emotions, but their outraging. Also, no man has the right to abandon honesty until dishonesty pays him better.
"G."
The mother's sigh was a deep expression of her hopeless feelings as she finished the last word of her son's postscript.
Gracie watched her out of the corners of her eyes.
"What's the matter, momma?" she inquired.
Her mother broke down weakly.
"They haven't found a trace of him yet. They can't locate how these letters are mailed. They can't just find a thing. And all the time these letters come along, and—and they get worse and worse. It's no good, Gracie; the poor boy's just crazy. Sure as sure. It's the heat, or—or drink, or strain, or—maybe he's starving. Anyway, he's gone, and we'll never see our Gordon again—not in his right mind. And now your poor father's gone, too. Goodness knows where. I'll—yes, I'll have to set the inquiry people to find him, too, if—if I don't hear from him soon. To—to think I'd have lived to see the day when——"
"I don't guess Gordon's in any sort of trouble, momma," cried Gracie, displaying an unexpected sympathy for her distracted parent. Then she smiled that wise little superior smile of youth which made her strong features almost pretty. "And I'm sure he's not—crazy. Say, mom, just don't think anything more about it. And I'd sort of keep all those letters—if they're like that. You never told me the others. May I read them? I never would have believed Gordon could have written like that—never. You see, Gordon's not very bright—is he?"