“Why, mother,” cried Dick joyously, “we can clear all off, and have some money to go on with; and- But, I say, if Max sent this, he wouldn’t like us to go.”
“Max did not send it,” said Mrs Shingle decidedly. “Eh?”
“I am sure of it,” she said.
“Then you know who did?”
“If I knew who sent it, Dick,” said the poor woman, laying her hand upon his arm, “you’d have known too.”
“So I should, mother—so I should,” he said quietly, as he nodded his head. “Who could it be, then?”
“Some good, true friend, who don’t want to be known,” said Mrs Shingle.
“It would be a bitter pill to swallow,” said Dick thoughtfully, “if it was done in charity—a gilded pill, mother, wrapped up in that bit of paper. Oh, mother, mother!” he cried, stamping up and down the room, “I’m only a poor, miserable fellow, but I’ve got my pride, like better men. I don’t like this beggarly dependence on other people—this taking money in charity. If I could only hit a bright—invent some new thing that all the world would buy!”
“Watts was an inventor, and made the steam engine,” said the boy softly.
“Hang Watts!” cried Dick impatiently. “Here, you be quiet. I don’t want your union-school copy-books here.”