"I don't know," replied Mildred. "Perhaps because it's got to be done."
This seemed to them all—and to herself—a lame excuse for such apparent hardness of heart. Her father had always been SENDER-HEARTED—HAD NEVER SPOKEN OF MONEY, OR ENCOURAGED HIS FAMILY IN SPEAKING OF IT.
A LONG AND PAINFUL SILENCE. THEN, THE WIDOW ABRUPTLY:
"YOU'RE SURE, Frank, there's NO insurance?"
"Father always said that you disliked the idea," replied her son; "that you thought insurance looked like your calculating on his death."
Under her husband's adroit prompting Mrs. Gower had discovered such a view of insurance in her brain. She now recalled expressing it—and regretted. But she was silenced. She tried to take her mind of the subject of money. But, like Mildred, she could not. The thought of imminent poverty was nagging at them like toothache. "There'll be enough for a year or so?" she said, timidly interrogative.
"I hope so," said Frank.
Mildred was eying him fixedly again. Said she: "Have you found anything at all?"
"He had about eight thousand dollars in bank," said Frank. "But most of it will go for the pressing debts."
"But how did HE expect to live?" urged Mildred.