“What is it, Sam?”
“Won’t you invite Frank and his sister to come and stay here a week?”
“Just as your mother says.”
“I say yes. The poor children will be quite welcome. If we were rich enough they might stay with us all the time.”
“When Frank comes here I will talk over his affairs with him,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “Perhaps we can think of some plan for him.”
“I wish you could, father.”
“In the meantime, you can invite him and Grace to come and stay with us a week, or a fortnight. Shall we say a fortnight, wife?”
“With all my heart.”
“All right, father. Thank you.”
Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showed how strongly his own feelings were enlisted in favor of its acceptance. Frank grasped his hand.
“Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend,” he said.
“I hadn’t begun to think of what we were to do, Grace and I.”
“You’ll come, won’t you?”
“You are sure that it won’t trouble your mother, Sam?”
“She is anxious to have you come.”
“Then I’ll come. I haven’t formed any plans yet, but I must as soon–as soon as mother is buried. I think I can earn my living somehow. One thing I am determined about–I won’t go to the poorhouse.”
The funeral was over. Frank and Grace walked back to the little house, now their home no longer. They were to pack up a little bundle of clothes and go over to Mr. Pomeroy’s in time for supper.
When Frank had made up his bundle, urged by some impulse, he opened a drawer in his mother’s bureau. His mind was full of the story she had told him, and he thought it just possible that he might find something to throw additional light upon his past history. While exploring the contents of the drawer he came to a letter directed to him in his mother’s well-known handwriting. He opened it hastily, and with a feeling of solemnity, read as follows:
“My Dear Frank: In the lower drawer, wrapped in a piece of brown paper, you will find two gold eagles, worth twenty dollars. You will need them when I am gone. Use them for Grace and yourself. I saved these for my children. Take them, Frank, for I have nothing else to give you. The furniture will pay the debt I owe Deacon Pinkerton. There ought to be something over, but I think he will take all. I wish I had more to leave you, dear Frank, but the God of the Fatherless will watch over you– to Him I commit you and Grace. Your affectionate mother, RUTH FOWLER.”
Frank, following the instructions of the letter, found the gold pieces and put them carefully into his pocketbook. He did not mention the letter to Grace at present, for he knew not but Deacon Pinkerton might lay claim to the money to satisfy his debt if he knew it.
“I am ready, Frank,” said Grace, entering the room. “Shall we go?”
“Yes, Grace. There is no use in stopping here any longer.”
As he spoke he heard the outer door open, and a minute later Deacon Pinkerton entered the room.
None of the deacon’s pompousness was abated as he entered the house and the room.
“Will you take a seat?” said our hero, with the air of master of the house.
“I intended to,” said the deacon, not acknowledging his claim. “So your poor mother is gone?”
“Yes, sir,” said Frank, briefly.
“We must all die,” said the deacon, feeling that it was incumbent on him to say something religious. “Ahem! your mother died poor? She left no property?”
“It was not her fault.”
“Of course not. Did she mention that I had advanced her money on the furniture?”
“My mother told me all about it, sir.”
“Ahem! You are in a sad condition. But you will be taken care of. You ought to be thankful that there is a home provided for those who have no means.”
“What home do you refer to, Deacon Pinkerton?” asked Frank, looking steadily in the face of his visitor.
“I mean the poorhouse, which the town generously provides for those who cannot support themselves.”