“Not very strange, mother, when you consider that I believe my father was a mighty good pattern for his son to copy. If father trusted Mr. Chester Downes, I could be almost tempted to believe that I had injured that gentleman in my thoughts.”
“You have, Clinton! you have!” she cried.
“I don’t doubt you believe so mother,” I said, quietly. “But how about father? What was his opinion of Aunt Alice’s husband?”
“Why—you see, Clinton,” she returned slowly and doubtfully, “Doctor Webb was not very well acquainted with Chester.”
“No?”
“He never came much to our house while the doctor was alive.”
“And why not?” I asked.
“That—that would be hard to say,” she said; but she was so confused that I felt that my mother, who was the soul of truth, found it hard to answer my question honestly.
“Well, I should have been glad of my father’s opinion, at least,” I said. “As it is,” I added, “not having that to guide me, I must stick to my own.”
“But you have mine, Clinton!” she cried.