In the kitchen, seated on a chair, a boy was sobbing. His father had just told him that death had visited them. And the boy felt completely weighed down with grief. His mother had been so good to him. "Such an excellent mother," he said to himself; "ah, how I shall miss her."
He sobbed silently; the hot tears were few and far between. His grief was too intense to be demonstrative.
He stayed there for fully an hour, in the same attitude, bowed down as it were by this heavy load which had fallen upon him.
Let us go back into Frank Mathers' history—for Frank Mathers it was who mourned his mother's loss—for a few years.
Mr. Mathers, his wife and only son were seated round the fire one evening.
"You will be fourteen years of age to-morrow," said Frank's father, "it is time for me to think of finding you a situation."
Frank did not answer, the idea of leaving school did not please him; he looked up from his book for an instant, then pretended to resume his reading.
"I shall talk to Mr. Baker, the grain merchant; as you have a liking for books, I think you would do well in his office. Would you like to go?" said his father.
"If you think I am old enough to leave school," mumbled Frank.