Then folding it, he shoved it
back into the envelope and gravely drew out the other letter. It bore
a later date and was in the same handwriting:
MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,
Tucson, Arizona.
DEAR BROTHER WILL: I was so delighted to get your letter. And I am so
eager to see you. It has been such a long, long time, hasn't it?
Fifteen years, isn't it? And ten years since I even got a letter from
you!
I won't remember you, I am sure, for I am only nineteen now, and you
were only fifteen when you left home. And I suppose you have grown big
and strong, and have a deep, booming voice and a fierce-looking
mustache. Well, I shall love you, anyway. So hurry and come home.
I am sending you a telegraph money order for one thousand dollars, for
from the tone of your letter it seems things are not going right with
you. Hurry home, won't you?
With love,
Your sister,
MARY.
Sanderson finished reading the letter. He meditated silently, turning
it over and over in his hands. The last letter was dated a month
before.
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