“JEREMIAH PEARSON.”
“Great Heavens!” groaned the Admiral, “he has absconded.”
“And left me both a bankrupt and a thief.”
“No, no, Harold,” sobbed his mother. “All will be right. What matter about money!”
“Money, mother! It is my honor.”
“The boy is right. It is his honor, and my honor, for his is mine. This is a sore trouble, mother, when we thought our life's troubles were all behind us, but we will bear it as we have borne others.” He held out his stringy hand, and the two old folk sat with bowed grey heads, their fingers intertwined, strong in each other's love and sympathy.
“We were too happy,” she sighed.
“But it is God's will, mother.”
“Yes, John, it is God's will.”
“And yet it is bitter to bear. I could have lost all, the house, money, rank—I could have borne it. But at my age—my honor—the honor of an admiral of the fleet.”