“I don’t wish her to,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with honorable pride. “It would only be an act of condescension on her part, and Sarah Simpson isn’t the woman to condescend to me, who was born and brought up her equal.”
“You’re right there, mother. You are just as much a lady as she is, even if you are poor.”
“I hope I am, Tom.”
“You spoke of father’s last letter to you, mother. I haven’t looked at it for a long time. Will you let me see it?”
“Certainly, my son.”
Mrs. Thatcher went to the bureau, and from the top drawer took out an old letter, grown yellow with age, and unfolding it handed it to Tom. It was quite long, but a large part of it would be of no interest to my readers. I only transcribe the parts which are material to my story.
“I am glad to say, my dear Mary, that I have been very fortunate. John Simpson and I, some three months ago, chanced upon some very rich diggings, which, lying out of the ordinary course of travel and exploration, had thus far failed to attract attention. For a month or more we worked alone, managing in that time to ‘feather our nests’ pretty well. Then we sold out a portion of our claims to a third party for a large sum, and worked the balance ourselves. I don’t dare to tell you how much we are worth, but enough to make us very comfortable. I can say as much as that. It won’t be long before I come home. I could come now, but I think it a shame to leave so much treasure in the ground, when it can be had for the digging. A little patience, dear wife, and I shall come home, and place you and our darling children in a position where you will never again know the limitations of poverty.
“Simpson’s plans are the same as mine. We shall probably go home together, and build two nice houses near each other. It will be pleasant in years to come to refer to our days of struggle when we worked together at the shoe bench for a dollar and a half a day, and had to support our families on that paltry sum. Those days, thank God! are over, and I am still a young man with half my life before me, as I hope.”
“Poor father!” said Tom. “How little he thought that his good luck was to prove the cause of his death, and that the money he had secured would never find its way to his family.”
“It always makes me sad to read that letter,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “It is so bright and hopeful, and death was even then so near.”
As Tom gave back the letter to his mother, a knock was heard at the door.