“That’s me, mother,” he said, looking from wife to daughter, “ain’t it?”
“Yes, Dick, it is for you.”
“Let’s look inside. What does it say in the letter?”
“Nothing! There, we’ve only the blank sheet of paper in which the note was wrapped. Yes, on one corner, the words—‘For you, Richard Shingle.’”
“Then, it’s from that Tom Fraser,” cried Dick, plucking up; “and I won’t take it.”
“No, father,” cried Jessie eagerly; and she trembled, too, as she took the paper. “It is not his writing; and he would have said ‘Mr. Richard Shingle.’”
“So he would, my gal,” said Dick, nodding. “Then it’s from Max; and he’s sorry he’s been so hard on me—dear old Max! And he wants to be friends again. Blood is thicker than water, after all, mother; and I always said it was. There, I’m as pleased as if it was a hundred from any other man.”
The tears stood in his eyes, as he looked from one to the other; but to read no sympathy in the countenance of wife and child.
“That’s five times, you know, the money’s come like that,” said Dick, “and always when we’ve been in great trouble. It is from Max, mother; and his roughness is only the way he’s got.”
A faint flush of hope illumined Jessie’s face as she tried to believe her father’s words; but it died out directly.