"Nonsense! You don't try. Why don't you set about doing something and forget it instead of sitting round mooning and working yourself all up? You can run down and get the mail right now. There's the bell. Maybe it's a letter from Uncle Frederick." Welcoming the diversion her brother rose with alacrity. He was in a mood when any excitement, no matter how trivial, was a boon. Down the stairs he ran only to return a second later with a square white envelope in his hand. "Is it from Uncle Frederick?" queried Mary eagerly. "Nope!" "Oh, I'm sorry, we haven't heard from him for ever so long. I do hope nothing's the matter. Who is the letter from?" "I don't know." Something in the reticence of the reply caused the girl to glance up. "I'll take it in to Mother," volunteered she, holding out her hand. "It isn't for Mother," Carl answered slowly. "Not for Mother? How funny! None of the rest of us ever have letters. Who is it for?" "It happens to be mine." "Carl!" Dismay and apprehension vibrated in the word. "Yes, it's mine," her brother repeated. His obvious attempt to carry off the episode in jaunty fashion failed, however, and it was evident by his tense tones that he echoed Mary's alarm. "But who on earth can be writing to you?" demanded his sister. "I--I--don't know." The boy fingered the envelope with uneasiness. Mary came nearer. "Carl, what have you been up to now?" asked she. "That looks like the teacher's writing. Aren't you going to be promoted or what is the matter?" "How do I know until I read the thing?" snapped Carl. "You're not in any scrape?" "Not that I know of." "Honestly?" "I tell you I can't think of any. On my honor I can't." "Oh, well then, it's probably about your work. Most likely you're behind the class in something and Miss Dewey wants to see you. Why don't you buck up and find out what she has to say?" "I'm going to in a minute." "You're afraid to open that letter. You've done something at school you don't want Mother and me to know about." "I tell you I haven't." "Then why, for pity's sake, don't you read what Miss Dewey has written instead of looking at the note as if it was a bomb? Maybe she's inviting you to supper. She does ask the boys sometimes." This possibility was so encouraging that the startled expression in the lad's eyes gave place to a serener light. Perhaps after all the missive did not portend the calamity that a note from school usually did. Maybe his algebra was all right and he had not flunked his Latin. The fates may have graciously intervened. Courageously he tore open the envelope; then a sharp cry came from his lips. "Hurrah!" he cried. "Mother! Mother! Where are you?" "Here, dear, in my room. Is anything the matter?" Carl rushed off unceremoniously, leaving the mystified Mary alone in the middle of the kitchen. "Oh, Ma," he panted, "what do you suppose? We're going, after all--every one of us! Think of it! We're going!"