There was a certain pathos about this letter, and the tears rose to Ben’s eyes. He could not realize that the woman with whom he had been constantly associated for nearly a year, was really dead and that he would see her no more.
“I suppose we ought to telegraph to Mrs. Harcourt’s relatives,” said Ben, referring to General Flint.
“That seems to me the best thing to do, Ben. Do you know where they live?”
“Both in New York, and both in the same house. Mr. Anderson is the uncle of Mr. Wentworth.”
In the desk Edwin found nearly a thousand dollars, so that he was provided with money to pay Mrs. Harcourt’s funeral expenses.
“If there had been any difficulty, Edwin, I would have seen you through,” said his friend General Flint. “And that reminds me, your adopted mother says nothing of any provision for you.”
“No,” said Ben.
“What will you do if you are left out in the cold?”
“I have about one hundred and fifty dollars saved up from my allowance, which has been liberal.”
“That won’t go far.”