The boy, who was sitting on the hearthrug playing with some toys, bore a strong resemblance to his mother. He also, appeared very fragile and in his childish face was reproduced much of the delicate prettiness which she had once possessed. His feminine appearance was increased by the fact that his yellow hair hung in long curls on his shoulders. The pride with which his mother regarded this long hair was by no means shared by Frankie himself, for he was always entreating her to cut it off.
Presently the boy stood up and walking gravely over to the window, looked down into the street, scanning the pavement for as far as he could see: he had been doing this at intervals for the last hour.
“I wonder wherever he’s got to,” he said, as he returned to the fire.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” returned his mother. “Perhaps he’s had to work overtime.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking lately,” observed Frankie, after a pause, “that it’s a great mistake for Dad to go out working at all. I believe that’s the very reason why we’re so poor.”
“Nearly everyone who works is more or less poor, dear, but if Dad didn’t go out to work we’d be even poorer than we are now. We should have nothing to eat.”
“But Dad says that the people who do nothing get lots of everything.”
“Yes, and it’s quite true that most of the people who never do any work get lots of everything, but where do they get it from? And how do they get it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Frankie, shaking his head in a puzzled fashion.
“Supposing Dad didn’t go to work, or that he had no work to go to, or that he was ill and not able to do any work, then we’d have no money to buy anything. How should we get on then?”