there in Canada.' He was so nice with me, it made it jolly hard to
leave."

Another day, as he dried the dishes for her, assuring her that it was
a real joy for him to be let do this, he analyzed the situation
again:--

"My father's people are all very large and handsome," he said, "and
have a very commanding way with them; my father has always been
obeyed, and always got what he wanted. It was my chin which bothered
him the most. It is not much of a chin, I know; it retreats, doesn't
it? But I cannot help it. But I have always been a bitter
disappointment to him, and it really has been most uncomfortable for
mother--he seemed to blame her some way, too; and often and often I
found her looking at me so sadly and saying, 'Poor Stanley!' and all
my aunts, when they came to visit, called me that. It was--not
pleasant."

Every week his letter came from home, with books and magazines and
everything that a boy could wish for. His delight knew no bounds.
"They must think something of me," he said over and over again! At
first he wrote a letter to his mother every day, but a curt note came
from his father one day telling him that he must try to interest
himself in his surroundings and that it would be better if he wrote
only once a week! The weekly letter then became an event, and he
copied it over many times. Mrs. Corbett, busy with her work of feeding
the traveling public, often paused long enough in her work of peeling
the potatoes or rolling out pie-crust to wipe her hands hastily and
read the letter that he had written and pass judgment on it.