“Ernest, my lad,” said Dr. Stapleton, gently, “your father has some bad news for you, which it is harder for him to tell than for you to hear, though it will trouble you greatly. You are young, but you are the oldest son he has, and he has a right to look to you for sympathy and help. You will not fail him, I know.”
The boy looked pale—it was such a solemn address for his uncle to make—but he left his seat, and went to his father’s side and stood with his hand on his shoulder.
“What is it, father?” he said. “Please tell me quickly. I have known for some time that there was a trouble, though I cannot imagine what it is.”
“Do you find your pocket-money enough for your needs, Ernest?” Mr. Stapleton’s voice trembled a little, but he tried to speak as cheerfully as he could. The boy looked surprised at the question.
“It is now, father,” he said, “because I am more careful than I used to be. Why? Has any one spoken to you about me? Indeed, father, I assure you that I have no debts now.”
“No, my son, it is I who have the debts. I am sorry to tell you that I have had heavy losses, and that my riches have taken to themselves wings and flown away.”
“You mean that you are not as well off as you used to be, father? I have guessed that lately. But there might be worse troubles than that, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, my son, and there are. I cannot pay my debts.”
“Then let us part with some of the things we have. I will sell my pony and my bicycle, and anything else that I have. We can sell this house and our carriages, and go into a small place in the country, for, of course, we must not live on other people’s property. If we cannot pay for things, they do not belong to us, and we have no right to them.”
“But, Ernest, think of your poor mother.”