le squeal and jumped up and down till
her black curls bobbed all over her face. When she stopped jumping she
looked straight at Elliott.

"Which hand will you take?" she asked.

"I? Oh, have you a letter for me, after all?"

"You didn't guess it," said the child. "Which hand?"

"The right--no, the left."

Priscilla shook her head. "You aren't a very good guesser, are you?
But I'll give it to you this time. It's not fat, but it looks nice. He
didn't even get out, that postman didn't; he just tucked the letter in
the box as he rode along."

"Certain sure he didn't tuck any other letter in too, Pris?" queried
Laura.

The child held out empty hands.

"That's no proof. Your eyes are too bright." Laura turned her around
gently. "Oh, I thought so! Stuck in your dress. From Bob!"

"Two," squealed Priscilla, with an emphatic little hop. "Here, give
'em to Mother. They're 'dressed to her. Now let's get into 'em, quick.
Shall I ring the bell, Mother, to call in Father and the rest? Two
letters from Bob is a great big emergency; don't you think so?"

The words filtered negligently through Elliott's inattention. All her
conscious thoughts were centered on her father's handwriting. She had
had a cable before, but this was his first letter. It almost made her
cry to see the familiar script and know that she could get nothing but
letters from him for a whole long year. No hugs, no kisses, no
rumpling of her hair or his, no confidential little talks--no anything
that had been her meat and drink for years. How did people endure such
separations? A big lump came up in her throat and the tears pricked
her eyes; but she swallowed very hard and blinked once or twice and
vowed, "I won't cry, I _won't_!"

And then suddenly, through her preoccupation, she became aware of a
hush fallen on the bubbling expectancy of the room. Glancing up from
the page, she saw Henry standing in the doorway. Even to unfamiliar
eyes there was something strangely arresting in the boy's look, a
shocked gravity that cut like a premonition.

"They say Ted Gordon's been killed," he said.

"Ted--Gordon!" cried Laura.

"Practice flight, at camp. Nobody knows any particulars. Cy Jones told
Father." The boy's voice sounded dry and hard.

"Are they certain there is no mistake?" his mother asked quietly.

"I guess it's true. Cy said the Gordons had a telegram."

"I must go over at once." Mrs. Cameron rose, putting the letters into
Laura's hands, and took