"Well, what is it?" the boy demanded.
"You'll never believe it," laughed Louise with shining eyes. "I've had a letter. You couldn't guess who it's from!"
She held a square white envelope high above her head.
"I'm going to have it framed and hand it down to my great-great-grandchildren."
"You might let me see it," coaxed Carl, putting out his hand.
"Oh, it is far too precious to be touched. It is going to be an archive, an heirloom, you know."
"Oh, come on and tell a chap what's happened," urged Carl, his patience beginning to wane.
"Well, think of this! I've had a note from Mr. Coulter—not from the firm, understand, but from the great J. W. himself, written by his own hand. He says he hears that through some error my name has been dropped from the Davis and Coulter payroll, and he not only asks me to come back to the mill but sends me a cheek for double the sum that I have lost by being out. Can you beat that?"
"Oh, Louise, how bully! I am glad! But how do you suppose——"
"That's exactly what we don't know. It seems like magic, doesn't it? I never knew before that Mr. Coulter kept such close track of what went on at the mills. He doesn't come there often because he is always at the down-town office. When he does visit the mills he simply strolls through them as if they belonged to somebody else rather than to himself. Of course he doesn't know one of the workers and I've always fancied he didn't care much about us. But this proves how wrong I was to think so. He does care, you see, and means everybody shall have a square deal. I shall go back Monday and work harder than ever for him. You will work your fingers off for such a man as that, you know."