jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. She is so, but I
never could reconcile myself to the fact."

"Do you remember your father--your own father, Frank?"

"You need not have said 'your own father.' I don't recognize Mr.
Manning as a father, at all. Yes, I remember him. I was eight years old
when he died. He was a fine-looking man, always kind--a man to be loved
and respected. There was not a particle of similarity between him and
Mr. Manning. He was strong and manly."

"How did it happen that he died so young?"

"He was the victim of a railway accident. He had gone to New York on
business, and was expected back on a certain day. The train on which he
was a passenger collided with a freight train, and my poor father was
among the passengers who were killed. The news was almost too much for
my poor mother, although she had not yet become an invalid. It brought
on a fit of sickness lasting for three months. She has never been
altogether well since."

"After all, Frank, the gifts of fortune, or rather Providence, are not
so unequally distributed as at first appears. You are rich, but
fatherless. I am poor enough but my father and mother are both spared to
me."

"I would gladly accept poverty if my father could be restored to life,
and my mother be spared to me for twenty years to come."

"I am sure you would, Frank," said Herbert. "Money is valuable, but