“He may yet turn out all right, Bradley,” said Mr. Lane, for the moment forgetting their points of difference and only remembering that he and Mr. Wentworth had been young men together. “Don’t be too stern with him. It is best to be forbearing with a boy of his age.”
“Forbearing! I try to be, but only last month bills were sent to me amounting to five hundred dollars, run up by Victor within three months.”
Warren Lane inwardly thanked God that he had no fault to find with his boy. Gerald had never given him a moment’s uneasiness. He had always been a dutiful son.
“After all,” he thought, “wealth can’t buy everything. I would not exchange my poverty for Bradley Wentworth’s wealth, if I must also exchange sons. Poverty has its compensations.”
“You are still living in Chicago?” said Lane.
“No; I have my office in Chicago, but I retain my residence in Seneca.”
“Do you still keep up the factory?”
“Yes. I do more business than my uncle ever did.”
He said this in a complacent tone.
“How unequally fortune is distributed!” thought Mr. Lane with an involuntary sigh. “Still—I have Gerald!”