“I understood that some one who sympathized with your father’s wishes for you was arranging it.”
“Yes. I don’t know who it is; at least I’m supposed not to know, though I can’t help suspecting.”
Mr. Dean took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.
“It’s odd that the man should want to make a mystery of it,” he remarked.
“Yes, I don’t quite understand that. He’s a doctor at home who knew my father and wrote the finest letter about him! Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you who I think it is; it’s Lester Wallace’s father.”
“An old St. Timothy’s boy himself. Good for him! He won’t be sorry.”
“I hope you had a good vacation, Mr. Dean.”
“Not the best. I had to spend most of it in Boston under an oculist’s care, and I have to look forward to some tedious hours. No more reading at night. Take care of your eyes, my boy.”
“They’re pretty strong, I guess. I’m sorry you’re having trouble with yours, Mr. Dean. If you ever want somebody to come and read to you, I wish you’d send for me.”
“Thank you, David; I’ll do that.”