“Then the letter would have come back, Harry,” said my mother. “He did not write.”
“No,” said my father quietly; “I did not write. What was the use of troubling the poor fellow about our miserable affairs when he was far away?”
“Then you did not come, Harry, because we were in trouble?”
“No, mother,” I replied. “I came home because my task was done.”
“Your task was done?” said my mother. “I don’t understand you. I thought you went to work at your uncle’s.”
“I was with my uncle, mother,” I replied, enjoying the knowledge of the surprise I had in store, and feeling that now, indeed, the treasure I had found was worth having, for what changes it would work! “but he was in trouble too.”
“In trouble!” said my father and mother in a breath.
“Yes, he was in the same predicament as you are, and his coffee plantation was going to be sold up.”
“What an unhappy family ours is!” said my mother. “Harry—Harry! you might as well have stayed at home.”
“If I had stayed at home, mother, would it have spared you this trouble?”