This hurt worse than John Dickson’s words had done.
“I felt so fine and looked so foolish. What must Craig and Alice and Miss Mason have thought of me?” he said to himself. “Yes, I was a fool,—a dum fool, and I looked like a fool in ’em. Dot said so, she knows, and I’ll never wear ’em again. I’ll put ’em out of sight, where nobody can see the old man’s folly, and mabby, bimeby, when they send a box to the heathen, I’ll put ’em in. Pity to have ’em et with moths when they cost so much, and only wore once.”
He carried them to the attic,—gave one long regretful look at them and packed them away in the hair trunk with Taylor’s Tavern and Johnny’s blanket.
A few days later there came a line from Alice written on board the ship. The next day there was a letter from Helen, telling of her house and the dinners and lunches and receptions she was attending and giving. She spoke also of Jeff, who was doing well in school, and of Mark, the best husband in the world.
“I’m glad on’t,” Uncle Zach said, as Dot read the letter to him. “It seems as if they was my children, Alice and Craig, Mark and Helen, and Jeff. I’m glad they are so happy.”
Mrs. Taylor had not her husband’s hopeful nature. If the sun shone bright in the morning she wanted to see what the weather was at noon before admitting that it was fine, and now she answered, “Wait a few years and see what happens.”
“I shan’t wait. I’m glad they are happy now,” Uncle Zach replied, resolutely keeping his eyes on the present, and never dreaming of the drama which the future was to unroll and in which his so called children were to take an active part.
END OF PART I.