“We all hope so,” said the housekeeper; but she knew, while she spoke, that if, as she supposed, Mr. Wharton’s will contained a generous legacy for her, his death would not afflict her much. She suspected also that John Wade was waiting impatiently for his uncle’s death, that he might enter upon his inheritance. Still, their little social fictions must be kept up, and so both expressed a desire for his continued life, though neither was deceived as to the other’s real feeling on the subject.
“By the way, Mrs. Bradley,” said John Wade, “how came my uncle to engage that boy to read to him?”
“He was led into it, sir,” said the housekeeper, with a great deal of indignation, “by the boy himself. He’s an artful and designing fellow, you may rely upon it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Frank Fowler.”
“Fowler! Is his name Fowler?” he repeated, with a startled expression.
“Yes, sir,” answered the housekeeper, rather surprised at his manner. “You don’t know anything about him, do you?”
“Oh, no,” said John Wade, recovering his composure. “He is a perfect stranger to me; but I once knew a man of that name, and a precious rascal he was. When you mentioned his name, I thought he might be a son of this man. Does he say his father is alive?”
“No; he is dead, and his mother, too, so the boy says.”
“You haven’t told me how my uncle fell in with him?”