You will ask to what all this tends. It means, Jack, that I have made up my mind to win her if possible. Between the struggling artist and the wealthy heiress there was a distance too great to be spanned even by love, but now that her estate is on a level with my own I need not hesitate. The same spirit that has enabled her to meet and conquer adversity will sustain her in the self denial and self sacrifice to which she may be called as the wife of a poor man. I have resolved to put my fortune to the test before the close of her school term calls her from Granville. I have some reason to believe that she esteems me, at least. If I am not too precipitate, I hope that esteem may pave the way for a deeper and warmer sentiment. I hope the time may come when I can ask you to congratulate me, as I am sure you will do most heartily, my dear Jack. Ever yours, ALLAN THORPE.
P.S. — Lest you should waste your valuable time in exploring back numbers of the newspapers for some mention of Miss Frost in their society gossip, I may as well tell you that this is not her real name. In giving up her fashionable career she has, for a time at least, left behind the name which was associated with it, and taken a new one with the new vocation she has adopted. This might lead to embarrassment; but that will be obviated if she will only consent to accept my name, which has never had any fashionable associations.
P.S. — There is another girl spending the summer here, a Miss Clementina Raymond, of Brooklyn, who assumes airs and graces, enough for two. Perhaps it is well that you are not here for you might be smitten, and she is after higher game. She has “set her cap” for Mr. Randolph Chester, a wealthy bachelor of fifty or more, also a summer resident; but I suspect that he prefers Miss Frost. I do not give myself any trouble on that score. Miss Frost may reject me, but she certainly will not accept Mr. Chester.
Chapter 11
“Theophilus,” said Mrs. Wilson, “the flour is out, and we have but half a pound of sugar left.”
The minister looked grave.
“My dear,” he answered, “it seems to me that something is always out.”
“Then,” said his wife, smiling faintly, “I suppose you are out of money also.”
I have a dollar and thirty seven cents in my pocket book, and I do not know when I shall get any more.”
“Doesn’t the parish owe you something?”
“Yes, but the treasurer told me yesterday, when I spoke to him on the subject, that we must give them time to pay it; that it would create dissatisfaction if I pressed the matter.”
“How do they expect us to live?” demanded Mrs. Wilson, as nearly indignant as so meek a woman could be.
“They think we can get along somehow. Besides, the donation party takes place tomorrow. Mr. Stiles told me that I couldn’t expect to collect anything till that was over.”
“I wish it were over.”
“So do I.”
“I suppose it will amount to about as much as the others did. People will bring provisions, most of which they will eat themselves. When it is over we’ll be the richer by a dozen pincushions, half a dozen pies, a bushel of potatoes, and a few knick-knacks for which we have no earthly use.”
“I am afraid, my dear, you are getting satirical.”
There is more truth than satire in it, Theophilus, as you know very well. The worst of it is that we are expected to be grateful for what is only an additional burden.”
“Well, my dear, you are certainly right; but perhaps we may be more fortunate tomorrow.”
At this point Ralph Wilson, the minister’s oldest son, came into the room to recite a lesson in the Iliad, and the conversation took a turn.
“I am afraid Ralph will never be able to go to college after all,” said his mother.
“I don’t see any way at present,” said the minister; “but I hope it may be arranged. I wrote last week to my classmate, Professor Ames, of Dartmouth, to inquire what aid Ralph could depend upon from the beneficiary funds.”