“I remember him so well,” said Clark, slowly. “Mother used to tell me stories about him when he was a boy. He was her twin brother, you know, and she was as devoted to him as Edith is to you. I used to think that if I could ever be such a boy as Uncle Raymond was, I should be about right.”
Freeman’s eyes were shining now. He had forgotten all about himself, and was thinking only of the father whose death he had never ceased to mourn.
“Yes,” he said eagerly, “almost the first thing I can remember is walking in the street with him, and feeling so proud because he was so grand and handsome, and even now, it seems to me that he must have been nobler and finer than most men. It makes me proud to think I bear his name.”
“Raymond,” said Clark, earnestly, “are you bearing it so that he would be proud of you—if he were here now?”
The boy threw himself down, and burying his face in his hands, broke into bitter sobs.
“Oh, no, Stanley, no,” he cried; “I’m ashamed—ashamed, when I think how I’ve dragged his dear name in the dirt. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!”
The agony of shame and bitter sorrow in that woeful cry, wrung his cousin’s heart. He laid his hand lovingly on the bowed head as he said:—
“Turn right about, Ray, and make a new beginning. Determine that from this time on you will never do or say one thing that you would be ashamed to have Uncle Raymond know.”
“Oh, but you don’t know how bad I’ve been. Why, Stanley, I lied to Prof. Keene this very morning. I did know about that cracker. I carried the message from Henderson to Baum, myself.”
“I knew you did, Ray.”