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The Witness by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz
page 44 of 365 (12%)
telegram. Nobody but his mother would send him a telegram, and she would
never waste the money for it unless there was something dreadful the
matter. He looked at it fearfully, holding it in his hand and glancing
up again at Courtland half helplessly, as if he feared to open it.

Then, with that set, stolid look of prodding ahead that characterized
all Abner's movements he clumsily tore open the envelope.

"Your mother is dying. Come at once," were the terse, cruel words that
he read, signed with a neighbor's initials.

The young man gave the gasp of a hurt thing and stood gaping up at
Courtland.

"Nothing the matter, I hope," said Courtland, kindly, moved by the gray,
stricken look that had come over the poor fellow's face.

"It's mother!" he gasped. "Read!" He thrust the telegram into
Courtland's hand and sank down on the side of his bed with his head in
his hands.

"Tough luck, old man!" said Courtland, with a kindly hand on the bowed
shoulder. "But maybe it's only a scare. Sometimes people get better when
they're pretty sick, you know."

Wittemore shook his head. "No. We've been expecting this, she and I.
She's been sick a long time. I didn't want to come back this year! I
thought she was failing! But she would have it! She'd got her heart so
set on my graduating!"

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