At
the post-office, Alan ran inside, leaving his cousin to wait for
him at the door.
"Here it is, sure enough, Kit," he said, as he joined her again.
"What a little thin one, and from mamma, too!" said Katharine, as
she deliberately tore it open. "Papa must be away on one of his
business trips, I suppose."
Alan made no reply, but left her to read her letter while he
walked along at her side, whistling softly to himself. All at once
he heard a low exclamation, like a half-smothered cry of pain.
Turning quickly, he saw his cousin's face was ashy white, and her
breath was coming in short, quick gasps.
"Katharine! What is it?" he cried, in terror at the change in her
face.
For answer, she held out the letter to him. "Oh, Alan, what does
it mean?"
He thought she was going to fall, and threw his arm around her to
support her, but she rallied quickly.
"Read it, Alan," she begged. "I can't seem to understand it."
Alan read it. But before he was half through it, his face was as
white as hers had been. "Oh, Kit!" he began; then he paused, not
daring to offer one word of pity.
The short letter was the bitter outcry of a selfish woman who
forgot her children's suffering in her own, for it bore its sad
message abruptly and with no word to soften the blow.
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