“I haven’t noticed any letter, sir.”
“When she brings one, please notice the address, and let me know it. I am afraid the boy will spend all his mother’s property if no one interferes. I want to write to him to come back. I will give him employment.”
“Very kind of you, sir,” said the postmaster, obsequiously.
“He is the son of my old associate,” said John Simpson, with an assumption of generosity, “and I naturally feel an interest in him and his mother.”
But for weeks Mrs. Thatcher brought no letters to the office. Tom was on the plains, and she knew not where to address him.
CHAPTER XLVI.
MRS. THATCHER LOSES HER NEW HOME.
ONE DAY, about four months after Tom’s departure, John Simpson sat at his writing-desk, busy about some accounts, when Rupert entered the room in visible excitement.
“Father,” he said, “what do you think? Hiram Bacon died last night.”
In a village like Wilton the death of a well-known citizen, especially if it is sudden, creates excitement.