After dinner was over, Mr. Bowen detained him and began to talk of his dead son, telling anecdotes of his boyhood, to which Frank listened with respectful attention, for the father's devotion was touching.
"I think my boy looked a little like you," said the old gentleman. "What do you think, Susan?"
"Not a mite, sir," answered Susan, promptly.
"When he was a boy, I mean."
"I didn't know him when he was a boy, Mr. Bowen."
"No, to be sure not."
"But Mr. John was dark-complected, and this boy is light, and Mr. John's hair was black, and his is brown."
"I suppose I am mistaken," sighed the old man; "but there was something in the boy's face that reminded me of John."
"A little more, and he'll want to adopt him," thought Susan. "That wouldn't do nohow, though he does really seem like a decent sort of a boy."
At eight o'clock Frank rose, and wished Mr. Bowen good-night.