That evening he went to bed with his head brim full of ideas and plans for the future. His heart overflowed with delight. He dreamt of nothing but inventions, huge fortunes and fame.
Next morning, when he awoke, his head had cleared, but his ideas were the same. He never doubted for a moment the certainty of his success.
During the course of the morning there were instants in which he felt less confident. What if he did not succeed—what would his step-mother say—what would he himself do, he who had made this scheme part of his being. But he would prosper, why, here (looking at the letter) was the opinion of people who had been amongst inventions for years.
A shadow seemed to cross the path of the greenhouse. "I think someone has passed by," he thought, "I will go and see." Suiting the action to the thought, he sprang at the door and opened it. What was his astonishment to see the postman. Two days following! it was an event, for they seldom received letters.
On hearing the noise which Frank made on opening the door, the postman turned round and handed him a letter. He was agreeably surprised to see that it was from the inventors' agency, but his delight was soon changed into bitter anger and bitterest disappointment when he had read its contents. It was worded thus:
"London.
"Dear Sir,—We are sorry to inform you that the invention we were about to patent for you, had, we have just found out, been patented before.
"The inventor, we have learned, ruined himself in trying to push it."
He read it twice over. Alas! it was too true. Sadly and mournfully he went into the house, there to think of his misfortune.
He entered the little parlour, threw himself on a chair, took the letter from his pocket and re-read it.