They both dislike me,
and I am afraid I return the feeling. If you
are sick or need me, do not fail to send for me,
for I can never forget that you are my father,
as I am your affectionate son,
Carl."
This letter was handed to Dr. Crawford at
the breakfast table. He colored and looked
agitated when he opened the envelope, and
Mrs. Crawford, who had a large share of
curiosity, did not fail to notice this.
"From whom is your letter, my dear?" she
asked, in the soft tone which was habitual with
her when she addressed her husband
"The handwriting is Carl's," answered Dr.
Crawford, already devouring the letter eagerly.
"Oh!" she answered, in a chilly tone. "I
have been expecting you would hear from him.
How much money does he send for?"
"I have not finished the letter." Dr.
Crawford continued reading. When he had finished
he laid it down beside his plate.
"Well?" said his wife, interrogatively.
"What does he have to say? Does he ask leave
to come home?"
"No; he is quite content where he is."
"And where is that?"
"At Milford."
"That is not far away?"
"No; not more than sixty miles."
"Does he ask for money?"
"No; he is employed."
"Where?"
"In a furniture factory."
"Oh, a factory boy."
"Yes; he is learning the business."
"He doesn't seem to be very ambitious,"
sneered Mrs. Crawford.
"On the contrary, he is looking forward to
being in business for himself some day."
"On your money--I understand."
"Really, Mrs. Crawford, you do the boy
injustice.
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