“You must be mistaken, Rupert,” said his father. “I saw Mr. Bacon no later than yesterday afternoon in the post-office.”
“He’s dead now,” persisted Rupert. “He was found dead in bed this morning. The doctor says he died of heart disease.”
“That’s very sudden,” said John Simpson, no longer incredulous. “I can hardly believe it.”
“I wonder where Tom Thatcher’s mother will live now,” continued Rupert.
“I didn’t think of that,” said his father, his face lighting up with satisfaction. “To be sure, it will be a great loss to her. She will lose a comfortable living.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Rupert.
“Rupert, Rupert, don’t rejoice over the misfortunes of your neighbors,” but he spoke very mildly.
“I can’t help it father. I hate Tom Thatcher and all his relations.”
“You shouldn’t hate anybody, my son,” said Mr. Simpson; but his rebuke was very light.