“Did he say that?” asked Frank, indignantly.
“Yes.”
“When he tells you that, you may say that I shall never go to the poorhouse.”
“He says his father is going to put you and your sister there.”
“All the Deacon Pinkertons in the world can never make me go to the poorhouse!” said Frank, resolutely.
“Bully for you, Frank! I knew you had spunk.”
Frank hurried home. As he entered the little house a neighbor’s wife, who had been watching with his mother, came to meet him.
“Frank,” she said, gravely, “you must prepare yourself for sad news. While you were out your mother had another hemorrhage, and—and—”
“Is she dead?” asked the boy, his face very pale.
“She is dead!”