Dr. Morton a yellow envelope. "No bad news, I
hope," he said.

It was addressed to Dr. Morton and read: "My husband died this morning.
Break news to Sherm--he must await letter."

Sherm, too, was older than he had been a year before. He was coming up
the lane whistling, swinging his supple young body along at a good pace,
as if he enjoyed being alive. Dr. Morton watched him, dreading to have
to tell him the bad news and wondering how he would take it. "It's a
pity," he thought, "Sherm's a fine manly fellow and ought to have his
education and a chance at life, and I am afraid this means more than
losing his father."

He waited until the boy came up to him. He was still holding the
telegram in his hand, but Sherm did not notice it until he spoke.

Dr. Morton's voice was very kind. "My boy, I am--afraid----" He got no
farther. Sherm saw the telegram and understood. "Father?" he questioned.
Dr. Morton nodded.

Sherm stood motionless, as if he were trying to realize that the blow he
had so long dreaded, had fallen. Presently he looked up at the Doctor.

"There isn't any train before to-morrow, is there?"

"No, Sherm, and I don't think your mother expects--here, read the
message."

Sherm's hand shook. He read the meager words through twice, then crushed
the paper in his fist.

"I am going home to-morrow," he said doggedly. "I've got enough saved up
for the railroad fare. He was my father--I haven't seen him for a year.
They might have told me! I am not a child any longer!"

Dr. Morton laid his hand on his shoulder. "Don't, Sherm--don't add
bitterness to grief. Your mother may not have known in time. Death often
comes suddenly at the last in such cases. And, my boy, I would think
twice before setting out rashly. Your mother asks you to wait for her
letter--she must have some good reason. The message was sent this
morning. There will probably be a letter to-morrow."

"I don't care whether there's a letter or not, I'm going." There was a
hard look on the boy's face.

Chicken Little came running up, with Jilly panting alongside. "My, we
had a good race, didn't we, Jilly Dilly? Why--what's----" She stopped
short at sight of their grave faces.

Dr. Morton told her.

She stood a moment awestruck; Chicken Little had never had death come so
near her before. Then she turned to Sherm, her face so full of tender
pity that his face softened a trifle.

"Don't worry about me, Chicken Little," he said gruffly, "I am all
r