“I do know what I’m talking about,” returned Jane, “I wrote a story about a sailor once, and I could see him inside of my head just as plainly as anything. He had red hair, and a fuzzy wart on his cheek, like a caterpillar, and his name was Moses Thomson—”
“Well, wife, after all there is no choice left us,” said Mr. Lambert laying down the letter. “Without a doubt, this will be a burden, a heavy responsibility; but I hope I am not deficient in generosity. I think no one can accuse me of that. I am prepared to do my duty in this matter as in all others.”
“But—but what does the letter say, Peter?” asked Mrs. Lambert timidly. “I haven’t seen it.”
“This letter is from your brother—”
“Yes. From Franz. I recognized his hand after all these years—”
“Your poor brother. Far be it from me to judge him. I have nothing to say about him. A shiftless idler, a hair-brained, irresponsible ne’er-do-well comes to no good end, and leaves better folk to take up his burdens. But it is not for us to judge. I have nothing to say about him—”
“Peter! My poor brother—my poor Franz!” cried Mrs. Lambert, greatly agitated, “what are you saying?” She stretched out her hand to take the letter, and, in her concern, half-rose from her chair.
“I will read you his letter, my dear,” said Mr. Lambert. “Try to control yourself.” He looked at her calmly and firmly, and she sat down again, with tears welling up in her soft, beautiful eyes.
Mr. Lambert cleared his throat, and read:
“Dear brother and Honored Sir; I hope this finds you and my good, dear mother, and my dear sister, Gertrude, and all your dear little ones in good health. I am not in good health. I am thinking that my time is about up although not an old man, just forty-two which is the Prime of life. The doctor, who is a good fellow, thinks it is about up with me but I have got a lot out of life and have no complaints to make. But I would ask you a favor, and hope that you will see your way to granting me this, seeing that I am a dying man and have no one to turn to and being in a forran country. My son, Paul, will soon be left alone, I fear, which is a bad thing for a young lad and I am hoping that perhaps being kinsfolk and he being a likely young fellow, good hearted though a bit unlicked, you may find your way to giving him a home until he can shift for himself. I haven’t done all I should have done by the lad, perhaps, living a kind of touch and go life, and I am hoping that you may find your way to letting him get some education which I think a valuable thing for a man, though having no great love of letters myself. This is a great favor I am asking I know but I trust you may find it in your heart to do me this favor and the boy will not forget it. The boy will work for you also and do as you say. He is sixteen years old now, and an orphan my wife being dead these ten years or so.
“My dear brother, I beg you to forget me and my failings, which have been many and show your kindness to my poor boy. And now I will close with respectful regards to yourself and give my love to my dear old mother and to my dear sister and all her sweet children who must be big youngsters now.
“Respectfully your brother,
“Franz Winkler.
“P. S. Am not letting on to the boy what the doctor says as he will take it hard and I can’t bear that. Have just told him that I am sending him back to America with a friend, Mr. Morse, and that I will join him as soon as I am in better shape, and have told him how to find you.”