"How goes it, uncle?" asked Homer Bulson, as he entered the room in which Mark Horton sat in an easy-chair.
"I am very weak, Homer. I don't think I shall ever be better. It is not because I fear death, for I have little to live for. But Gertrude——" He did not finish.
"She treated you badly, uncle, after all you had done for her."
"I am afraid that I was the one that was to blame."
"You? You were too indulgent, that was the trouble. She used to have her way in everything."
"Have you heard anything of her yet, Homer?"
"I think she went to Boston."
"To Boston? Do you know if she had much money?"
"I do not."
"Did she go alone?"