"
"Laughing? No," gravely, "I was not laughing. Play something lively;
Chaminade; I am blue to-night."
So Patty played the light, enchanting sketches. In the midst of one of
them she stopped suddenly.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I thought I heard the boat's whistle. Listen. Yes, there it is. It
must be a telegram. They never come up to the head of the lake at
night for anything less. There goes John with a lantern."
"Never mind the telegram," he said; "play."
A quarter of an hour later John and Kate came in.
"A telegram for you, Dick," John announced, sending the yellow
envelope skimming through the air.
Warrington caught it deftly. He balanced it in his hand speculatively.
"It is probably a hurry-call from the senator. I may have to go back
to town to-morrow. I have always hated telegrams."
He opened it carelessly and read it. He read it again, slowly; and
Patty, who was nearest to him, saw his face turn gray under the tan
and his lips tremble. He looked from one to the other dumbly, then
back at the sheet in his hand.
"Richard!" said Kate, with that quick intuition which leaps across
chasms of doubt and arrives definitely.
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