"Oh, Cora!" murmured Bess, rising from, the chair, and it was with no
easy effort that she did so, for she had allowed herself to sink back
again into its luxurious depths. "Oh, Cora dear! Isn't that perfectly
dreadful!"

Cora Kimball did not answer. She was staring at the fateful
telegram, reading it over and over again; the words now meaningless
to her. But she had grasped their import with the first swift
glance. Jack was ill--in trouble.

Bess put her arms around her chum, and slipped one plump hand up on
the tresses tangled by the wind on the motor ride.

"Can I do anything to help--your mother is she--"

"Of course!" exclaimed Cora with a sigh. "I must tell mother at
once. Yes, she's at home, Bess. Will you--do you mind coming with
me?"

"Of course not, my dear. I wouldn't think of letting you go alone to
tell her. Is the telegram from jack himself?"

No, it's from Walter Pennington. Walter says a letter
follows--special delivery."

"Oh, then you'll get it soon! Perhaps it isn't so bad as you think.
Dear Walter is so good!"