The letter dropped from Mrs. Clayton's fingers and lay unheeded on the
floor. The woman covered her face with her hands and rocked her body
back and forth.
"There, there, dearie," soothed the old man huskily; "mebbe Jehiel's
will be diff'rent. I shouldn't wonder, now, if Jehiel would come. There,
there! don't take on so, Harriet! don't! I jest know Jehiel'll come."
A week later Mrs. Clayton found another letter in the rural delivery
box. She clutched it nervously, peered at the writing with her dim old
eyes, and hurried into the house for her glasses.
Yes, it was from Jehiel.
She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost under the flap of the
envelope when she hesitated, eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust it
into the pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save at
times--which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence--when she took it from
its hiding-place, pressed it to her cheek, or gloried in every curve of
the boldly written address.
At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to her husband in tones
so low he could scarcely hear:
"Thaddeus, I--I had a letter from Jehiel to-day."
"You did--and never told me? Why, Harriet, what--" He paused helplessly.
"I--I haven't read it, Thaddeus," she stammered. "I couldn't bear to,
someway. I don't know why, but I couldn't. You read it!" She held out
the letter with shaking hands.
He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious eyes. As he began to
read aloud she checked him.
"No; ter yerself, Thaddeus--ter yerself! Then--tell me."
As he read she watched his face. The light died from her eyes and her
chin quivered as she saw the stern lines deepen around his mouth. A
minute more, and he had finished the letter and laid it down without a
word.
"Thaddeus, ye don't mean--he didn't say--"
"Read it--I--I can't," choked the old man.
She reached slowly for the sheet of paper and spread it on the table
before her.
_Dear Mother_ [Jehiel had written]: Just a word to tell you we are
all O. K. and doing finely. Your letter reminded me that it was about
time I was writing home to the old folks. I don't mean to let so many
weeks go by without a letter from me, but somehow the time just gets
away from me before I know it.
Minnie is well and deep in spring sewing and house-cleaning. I
know--because dressmaker's bills are beginning to come in, and every
time I go home I find a carpet up in a new place!
Our boy Fred is eighteen to-morrow. You'd be proud of him, I know, if
you could see him. Business is rushing. Glad to hear you're all right
and that father's rheumatism is on the gain.