“No. There is a great difference between the two boys. Peter is always respectful and obliging, and doesn’t set up his will against mine. He never gives me a moment’s uneasiness.”
“I hope you will continue to find him a comfort, my dear,” said Dr. Crawford, meekly.
He looked across the table at the fat, expressionless face of his stepson, and he blamed himself because he could not entertain a warmer regard for Peter. Somehow he had a slight feeling of antipathy, which he tried to overcome.
“No doubt he is a good boy, since his mother says so,” reflected the doctor, “but I don’t appreciate him. I will take care, however, that neither he nor his mother sees this.”
When Peter heard his mother’s encomium upon him, he laughed in his sleeve.
“I’ll remind ma of that when she scolds me,” he said to himself. “I’m glad Carl isn’t coming back. He was always interferin’ with me. Now, if ma and I play our cards right we’ll get all his father’s money. Ma thinks he won’t live long, I heard her say so the other day. Won’t it be jolly for ma and me to come into a fortune, and live just as we please! I hope ma will go to New York. It’s stupid here, but I s’pose we’ll have to stay for the present.”
“Is Carl’s letter private?” asked Mrs. Crawford, after a pause.
“I—I think he would rather I didn’t show it,” returned her husband, remembering the allusion made by Carl to his stepmother.
“Oh, well, I am not curious,” said Mrs. Crawford, tossing her head.
None the less, however, she resolved to see and read the letter, if she could get hold of it without her husband’s knowledge. He was so careless that she did not doubt soon to find it laid down somewhere. In this she proved correct. Before the day was over, she found Carl’s letter in her husband’s desk. She opened and read it eagerly with a running fire of comment.