“It’s too bad, Rube; that’s a fact,” said Mr. Sandon, laying his hand on my shoulder. “What ailed him?”
“Nothing. He met with an accident,” I replied, struggling hard with the lump that seemed bound to rise in my throat. “He fell over a ravine while looking for a place to locate a mill. You can read the letter if you wish.”
“I will.”
Mr. Sandon adjusted his spectacles, and read the letter carefully. While he did so I sat with my head buried in my hands, trying to hide the tears that would not stop flowing.
“This is from your Uncle Enos Norton, I see,” he went on. “I thought Enos Norton was dead long ago.”
“I have never seen him,” I replied.
“He used to be around these parts years ago when he was a young man; but he got a sudden notion to go West, and he went. He loaned your father some money, it appears.”
“So he says. I don’t know what for. Father took enough along to pay his expenses,” I returned despondently.
“Maybe he made a venture of some kind or another. A man is apt to risk more when he strikes a new country.”
I made no reply to this remark. My heart was too full for further talk, and leaving the post-office I walked slowly back to my boat.