patience with men who cannot stand up for themselves. Now, how much
shall I tell Ralph?" and she again read the letter through.

"Ralph," she said when he came in to dinner, "you remember that letter
I had this morning?"

"Yes, I know, mother; the one that made you turn so white. You said it
was from an old friend, though why a letter from an old friend should
upset any one I can't make out. What was it about, mother?"

"Well, my boy, it contains a pleasant piece of news. Mr. Penfold, that
is the name of the writer, was a friend of my family. He knew me long
ago when we were young people, and at one time it seemed likely that
we should be married. However, as you know, that never took place.
However, it seems, as he says by his letter, that he has never
altogether forgotten me, and he intends to help you on in life if you
turn out as he would like to see you. He wishes you to go down to stay
with him when your holidays begin."

"That sounds nice," Ralph said; "and if he has got any boys about my
own age it will be pleasant."

"He has no children, Ralph. He is what you may call an old bachelor,
and lives with his sisters--or, rather, they live with him."

"That does not sound very cheerful, mother. An old gentleman with two
old ladies alone in the house can't make much fun."

"He is not an old gentleman, Ralph," Mrs. Conway said almost angrily.
"I told you we were young people together. Still it may not be very