“I will send it to you, but you are to promise me first that you will not write to her. I want no sentimental nonsense.”
“I hate to write letters, so I don’t mind promising.”
There was a long silence during which Mr. Abbott dreamed and Fessenden squirmed.
“Are you a success, father, or a failure?”
Mr. Abbott jumped. “I?—well—I will let you judge of that for yourself when you are grown.”
“Do you keep a grocery store?—or teach school?—or write books?”
“No,” Mr. Abbott laughed. “But I get my humble living honestly. I am a lawyer by profession.”
“What is a lawyer?”
“Dear, happy child! All in good time, my boy. Now run out in the air if you like. Your cheeks are very red. Perhaps you will find an apple in my bag.”