“Forgive me for not thinking of your being tired, mother,” and he bent over and pressed his lips upon the cheek of the sick woman. “But don’t talk any more. Wait till to-morrow.”
In the afternoon Frank had a call from Sam Pomeroy.
“The club is to play to-morrow afternoon against a picked nine, Frank,” he said. “Will you be there?”
“I can’t, Sam,” he answered. “My mother is very sick, and it is my duty to stay at home with her.”
“We shall miss you—that is, all of us but one. Tom Pinkerton said yesterday that you ought to resign, as you can’t attend to your duties. He wouldn’t object to filling your place, I fancy.”
“He is welcome to the place as soon as the club feels like electing him,” said Frank. “Tell the boys I am sorry I can’t be on hand. They had better get you to fill my place.”
“I’ll mention it, but I don’t think they’ll see it in that light. They’re all jealous of my superior playing,” said Sam, humorously. “Well, good-bye, Frank. I hope your mother’ll be better soon.”
“Thank you, Sam,” answered Frank, soberly. “I hope so, too, but she is very sick.”
The next day Mrs. Fowler again called Frank to the bedside.
“Grace is gone out on an errand,” she said, “and I can find no better time for telling you what I know about you and the circumstances which led to my assuming the charge of you.”