The visitor laughed heartily, much to Nathan Middleton’s bewilderment.
“I don’t see what I have said that is so very amusing,” he said stiffly.
“You talk of a boy worth forty thousand dollars going to the poor-house!”
“What!” exclaimed Nathan, in open-eyed wonder.
“As his father directs that his guardian shall receive a thousand dollars a year for his care, most persons would not refuse so hastily.”
“My dear sir!” said Nathan persuasively, feeling as if he had suddenly discovered a gold mine, “is this really true?”
“I can show you a copy of the will, if you are in doubt.”
“I believe you implicitly, my dear sir; and so poor Stephen is dead!” and the insurance agent took out his handkerchief and placed it before his eyes to wipe away the imaginary tears. “We were very intimate when we were boys—like brothers, in fact. Excuse my tears, I shall soon recover the momentary shock of your sad announcement.”
“I hope so,” said the visitor dryly. “As you are not willing to take the boy, I will look elsewhere.”
“My dear sir,” hastily exclaimed Nathan, alarmed at the prospect of losing a thousand dollars a year, “you are quite mistaken. I have not refused.”