hear from Truxton?"

"A letter came this morning," said Mrs. Beaufort, lighting up with the
thought of it. "I hadn't heard for days before that. And I was worried."

"Truxton hasn't killed himself writing letters since he went over," the
Judge asserted. "Claudia, can't we have lunch?"

"William is unpacking the hamper now, Father. And I think Truxton has
done very well. It isn't easy for the boys to find time."

"Randy wrote to me every week."

"Now, Mother----"

"Well, you did."

"But I'm that kind. I have to get things off my mind. Truxton isn't. And
I'll bet when Aunt Claudia does get his letters that they are worth
reading."

Mrs. Beaufort nodded. "They are lovely letters. I have the last one with
me; would you like to hear it?"

"Not before lunch, Claudia," the Judge urged.

"I will read it while the rest of you eat." There were red spots in Mrs.
Beaufort's cheeks. She adored her son. She could not understand her
father's critical attitude. Had she searched for motives, however, she
might have found them in the Judge's jealousy.