"Poor little Fred!" he thought, as he sat there. "I am afraid the boy has had a hard life of it. Louise doesn't mean to neglect him, but she has so much else on her hands. I wonder what it's like, anyway." And leaning back in his chair he closed his eyes for two or three minutes, and then opened them, with a shudder, on the brightly lighted room. "It must be awful, sure enough, to be in such darkness. Well, I hope the Carters can take him in. He will be contented there. Louise ought to consider him a little more." But the thought never occurred to him that he, James Allen, could ever spend an evening at home, giving up his club or theatre, to entertain the boy, as much his son as the son of Louise.
The next evening, Mr. Carter came in with a letter, which he handed to his wife. She took it, read a few lines, and uttered an exclamation.
"What is it?" asked Bess, looking up from the game of dominoes she was playing with Rob.
"It is from Mr. Allen," answered her mother. "I will give it to you as soon as I finish it."
"From Mr. Allen? How queer! Go on, Rob, it is your turn."
"See what you think," said Mrs. Carter, giving Bess the letter.
Bess read it hastily, looked at her mother, and then read it again, slowly and thoughtfully.
"Well?" asked her mother.
"Why, I'm not the one to decide," said Bess.
"What's up?" inquired Rob.