"Three? Whoever from?" Jane held out her hand. "Ernest and Katy--and here's another with an Annapolis postmark. Who do you suppose?" Sherm glanced over her shoulder. "That's Carol Brown's handwriting." "Carol?--writing to me? How funny!" They hurried out to the team. "Let me drive while you read your letter, Sherm." Sherm shook his head. "Read yours first--this will keep." "The idea--I wouldn't be so piggy selfish." "Please, Jane, I'd rather get out of town before I tackle it." "Sherm, I wish I could----" She didn't need to finish. Sherm understood. "Read Carol's first," he said. She read it with a beaming face. Sherm was looking at her without seeing her. She started to tell him the contents of the letter, then suddenly stopped. She couldn't rejoice over being asked to a hop when Sherm was in such trouble. Laying the letter in her lap, she took up Ernest's. Sherm noticed the movement and, remembering, asked her what Carol had to say. She handed him the letter. He read it through absently. The houses were thinning along the road. The prairie stretched ahead of them in solitary sweeps of tender green, dappled with flowers. Jane reached for the reins. "Read your letter, Sherm." He obeyed in silence. Chicken Little kept her eyes on the road ahead. A sharp exclamation from Sherm startled her: "God, it can't be true!" Sherm swearing? She looked at him in amazement. The boy was not swearing; he had cried out in utter agony. He dropped the letter on the floor of the buggy and buried his face in his hands. "Sherm, Sherm, what is it?" Chicken Little was frightened. He did not answer. He did not seem to have noticed that she had spoken. She reached over and touched him. "Sherm! Sherm!" He shook off her hand impatiently. Chicken Little hesitated a moment, then flicked the horses into a swift trot. She must get him home. Perhaps he was going to be ill. The boy did not move or look up for miles. When the horses splashed through the ford at Elm Creek, he roused himself and looked dully at Jane. "Sherm, please tell me. It will make it easier for you to tell somebody, and I'm worried to death." He stooped and picked up the letter. Smoothing it out, he thrust it into her hand. "Read it." He took the reins. Chicken Little ran over the letter hurriedly. It bore a date some days previous. * * * * * "My Dear Boy: "Dr. Jones has just told me it can be only a question of days now. I have been studying whether to send for you or not. Father settled the question for me. He said he wanted sorrowfully to see you, but in view of the things that must be told you, it would be too painful an ordeal for all of us. He said to tell you you were very precious to him--as precious as if you had really been his own son." * * * * * Chicken Little gave a little cry. "Sherm, what does she mean?" "Read it all." * * * * *