“Dear Father:—Though I felt obliged to leave home for reasons which we both understand, I am sure that you will feel interested to know how I am getting along. I did not realize till I had started out how difficult it is for a boy, brought up like myself, to support himself when thrown upon his own exertions. A newsboy can generally earn enough money to maintain himself in the style to which he is accustomed, but I have had a comfortable and even luxurious home, and could hardly bring myself to live in a tenement house, or a very cheap boarding place. Yet I would rather do either than stay in a home made unpleasant by the persistent hostility of one member.
“I will not take up your time by relating the incidents of the first two days after I left home. I came near getting into serious trouble through no fault of my own, but happily escaped. When I was nearly penniless I fell in with a prosperous manufacturer of furniture who has taken me into his employment. He gives me a home in his own house, and pays me two dollars a week besides. This is enough to support me economically, and I shall after a while receive better pay.
“I am not in the office, but in the factory, and am learning the business practically, starting in at the bottom. I think I have a taste for it, and the superintendent tells me I am making remarkable progress. The time was when I would have hesitated to become a working boy, but I have quite got over such foolishness. Mr. Jennings, my employer, who is considered a rich man, began as I did, and I hope some day to occupy a position similar to his.
“I trust you are quite well and happy, dear father. My only regret is, that I cannot see you occasionally. While my stepmother and Peter form part of your family, I feel that I can never live at home. They both dislike me, and I am afraid I return the feeling. If you are sick or need me, do not fail to send for me, for I can never forget that you are my father, as I am your affectionate son,
“Carl.”
This letter was handed to Dr. Crawford at the breakfast table. He colored and looked agitated when he opened the envelope, and Mrs. Crawford, who had a large share of curiosity, did not fail to notice this.
“From whom is your letter, my dear?” she asked, in the soft tone which was habitual with her when she addressed her husband.
“The handwriting is Carl’s,” answered Dr. Crawford, already devouring the letter eagerly.
“Oh!” she answered, in a chilly tone. “I have been expecting you would hear from him. How much money does he send for?”
“I have not finished the letter.” Dr. Crawford continued reading. When he had finished he laid it down beside his plate.