Caroline rose to her feet suddenly under the stimulus of a bright idea that came into her mind. “I tell you what we can do.” “What?” “We can telegraph him,” she exclaimed. “Good idea,” cried Wilfred, more and more impressed with Caroline’s wonderful resourcefulness, but a disquieting thought immediately struck him. “Where am I going to get the money?” he asked dubiously. “It won’t take very much.” “It won’t? Do you know what they are charging now? Over seven dollars a word only to Petersburg.” “Well, let them charge it,” said Caroline calmly, “we can cut it down to only a few words and the address won’t cost anything.” “Won’t it?” “No, they never charge for that,” continued the girl. “That’s a heap of money saved, and then we can use what we save on the address for the rest.” Wilfred stared at her as if this problem in economics was not quite clear to his youthful brain, but she gave him no time to question her ingenious calculations. “What comes after the address?” she asked in her most businesslike manner. “‘Sir.’” “Leave that out.” Wilfred swept his pen through it. “He knows it already,” said Caroline. “What’s next?” “‘This is to notify you that I want you to let me come right now.’” “We could leave out that last ‘to,’” said Caroline. Wilfred checked it off, and then read, “‘I want you—let me come right now.’ That doesn’t sound right, and anyway it is such a little word.” “Yes, but it costs seven dollars just the same as a big word,” observed Caroline. “But it doesn’t sound right without it,” argued the boy; “we have got to leave it in. What comes after that?” Caroline in turn took up the note and read, “‘If you don’t, I’ll come anyhow, that’s all.’” “You might leave out ‘that’s all,’” said Wilfred. “No, don’t leave that out. It’s very important. It doesn’t seem to be so important, but it is. It shows—well—it shows that that’s all there is about it. That one thing might convince him.” “Yes, but we’ve got to leave out something.” “Not that, though. Perhaps there is something else. ‘The seventeen call is out’—that’s got to stay.” “Yes,” said Wilfred. “‘The sixteen comes next.’ That’s just got to stay.” “Of course. Now, what follows?” “‘I’m not going to wait for it,’” read Caroline. “We can’t cut that out,” said Wilfred; “we don’t seem to be making much progress, do we?” “Well, we will find something in a moment. ‘Do you think I am’——” she hesitated a moment, “‘a damned coward,’” she read with a delicious thrill at her rash, vicarious wickedness. Wilfred regarded her dubiously. He felt as an author does when he sees his pet periods marked out by the blue pencil of the ruthless editor. “You might leave that out,” he began, cutting valiantly at his most cherished and admired phrase. “No,” protested Caroline vehemently, “certainly not! That is the best thing in the whole letter.” “That ‘damn’ is going to cost us seven dollars, you know.”