“As for myself, I have a family of my own to provide for, and the expense of living in a city like this is very great. In justice to them, I do not feel that it would be right for me to incur extra expense. You tell me that he is now fourteen and a stout boy. He is able, I should think, to earn his own living. I should recommend that he be bound out to a farmer or mechanic. To defray any little expenses that may arise, I enclose ten dollars, which I hope he may find serviceable. Yours etc.,
“BENJAMIN STANTON.”
This cold and selfish letter Herbert read with rising color, and a feeling of bitterness found a place in his young heart, which was quite foreign to him.
“Well, Herbert, what do you think of it?” asked the doctor.
“I think,” said Herbert, hotly, “that I don't want to have anything to do with an uncle who could write such a letter as that.”
“He doesn't seem to write with much feeling.” acknowledged the doctor.
“Feeling!” repeated Herbert; “he writes as if I were a beggar, and asked charity. Where is the money he inclosed, Dr. Kent?”
“I have it here in my vest pocket. I was afraid it would slip out of the letter, and so took care of it.”
“Will you let me send it back to my uncle?” asked Herbert.
“Send it back?”