“Thank you,” said Frank, looking very much pleased with the compliment. “I try to be faithful. I feel that father has trusted me more than it is usual to trust boys of my age, and I want to show myself worthy of his confidence.”
“You are fortunate in having a father, Frank,” said the young man, with a shade of sadness in his voice. “My father died before I was of your age.”
“Do you remember him?” inquired Frank, with interest.
“I remember him well. He was always kind to me. I never remember to have received a harsh word from him. It is because he was so kind and indulgent to me that I feel the more incensed against a man who took advantage of his confidence to defraud him, or, rather, me, through him.”
“You have never mentioned this before, Mr. Morton.”
“No. I have left you all in ignorance of much of my history. This morning, if it will interest you, I propose to take you into my confidence.”
The eagerness with which Frank greeted this proposal showed that for him the story would have no lack of interest.
“Let us sit down under this tree,” said Henry Morton, pointing to a horse-chestnut, whose dense foliage promised a pleasant shelter from the sun's rays.
They threw themselves upon the grass, and he forthwith commenced his story.
“My father was born in Boston, and, growing up, engaged in mercantile pursuits. He was moderately successful, and finally accumulated fifty thousand dollars. He would not have stopped there, for he was at the time making money rapidly, but his health became precarious, and his physician required him absolutely to give up business. The seeds of consumption, which probably had been lurking for years in his system, had begun to show themselves unmistakably, and required immediate attention.