"No, sonny," he stammered. "We found it on the--er--I mean,
it--er--your father left it in his pocket for you," finished the
man, a little explosively.

A swift shadow crossed the boy's face.

"Oh, I hoped I'd heard--" he began. Then suddenly he stopped, his
face once more alight. "But it's 'most the same as if he wrote it
from there, isn't it? He left it for me, and he told me what to
do."

"What's that, what's that?" cried Higgins, instantly alert. "DID
he tell you what to do? Then, let's have it, so WE'LL know. You
will let us read it, won't you, boy?"

"Why, y--yes," stammered David, holding it out politely, but with
evident reluctance.

"Thank you," nodded Higgins, as he reached for the note.

David's letter was very different from the other one. It was
longer, but it did not help much, though it was easily read. In
his letter, in spite of the wavering lines, each word was formed
with a care that told of a father's thought for the young eyes
that would read it. It was written on two of the notebook's
leaves, and at the end came the single word "Daddy."


David, my boy [read Higgins aloud], in the far country I am
waiting for you. Do not grieve, for that will grieve me. I shall