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 drawing a letter from his pocket and holding it out to her.

She took it doubtfully. &quot;Ought I to read it?&quot;

&quot;Yes.&quot;

She saw then that the envelope, in Darrow's hand, was addressed to her son. Within were a few pencilled words, dated on the first day of his illness, the morrow of the day on which she had last seen him.

&quot;Dear Dick,&quot; she read, &quot;I want you to use my plans for the museum if you can get any good out of them. Even if I pull out of this I want you to. I shall have other chances, and I have an idea this one means a lot to you.&quot;

Mrs. Peyton sat speechless, gazing at the date of the letter, which she had instantly connected with her last talk with Darrow. She saw that he had understood her, and the thought scorched her to the soul.

&quot;Was n't it glorious of him?&quot; Dick said.