So poor Grace went out from her pleasant home to find the deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for her.
“Jump in, little girl,” he said. “You’ve kept me waiting for you a long time, and my time is valuable.”
The distance to the poorhouse was about a mile and a half. For the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton kept silence. Then he began to speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it were a favor for such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about to become a pauper.
“Little girl, have you heard from your brother lately?”
“Not very lately, sir.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is in a store.”
“I apprehend you are mistaken. He has lost his place. He has been turned away,” said the deacon, with satisfaction.
“Frank turned away! Oh, sir, you must be mistaken.”
“Mr. Pomeroy told me. He found out yesterday when he went to the city.”