“Your most obedient and humble servant,
“A. T. Holloway.
“P.S. Your agent is much to blame for neglecting to insure.”
Mrs. Howard, as soon as she had perused this epistle, gave it to her nephew, who was reading in the room with her when she received it. He showed more emotion on reading it than she had done. The coldness of the alderman’s letter seemed to strike the boy more than the loss of a fortune—“And this is a friend!” he exclaimed with indignation.
“No, my love,” said Mrs. Howard, with a calm smile, “I never thought Mr. Holloway any thing more than a common acquaintance: I hope—I am sure I have chosen my friends better.”
Charles fixed an eager, inquiring eye upon his aunt, which seemed to say, “Did you mean to call me one of your friends?” and then he grew very thoughtful.
“My dear Charles,” said the aunt, after nearly a quarter of an hour’s silence, “may I know what you have been thinking of all this time?”
“Thinking of, ma’am!” said Charles, starting from his reverie—“of a great many things—of all you have done for me—of—of what I could do—I don’t mean now; for I know I am a child, and can do nothing—I don’t mean nothing.—I shall soon be a man, and then I can be a physician, or a lawyer, or something.—Mr. Russell told me the other day, that if I applied myself, I might be whatever I pleased. What would you wish me to be, ma’am?—because that’s what I will be—if I can.”
“Then I wish you to be what you are.”
“O madam,” said Charles, with a look of great mortification, “but that’s nothing. Won’t you make me of some use to you?—But I beg your pardon, I know you can’t think about me just now. Good night,” said he, and hurried out of the room.