"By the way, Mrs. Bradley," said John Wade, "how came my uncle to engage
that boy to read to him?"

"He was led into it, sir," said the housekeeper, with a great deal of
indignation, "by the boy himself. He's an artful and designing fellow,
you may rely upon it."

"What's his name?"

"Frank Fowler."

"Fowler! Is his name Fowler?" he repeated, with a startled expression.

"Yes, sir," answered the housekeeper, rather surprised at his manner.
"You don't know anything about him, do you?"

"Oh, no," said John Wade, recovering his composure. "He is a perfect
stranger to me; but I once knew a man of that name, and a precious
rascal he was. When you mentioned his name, I thought he might be a son
of this man. Does he say his father is alive?"

"No; he is dead, and his mother, too, so the boy says."

"You haven't told me how my uncle fell in with him?"

"It was an accident. Your uncle fell in getting out of a Broadway stage,
and this boy happened to be near, and seeing Mr. Wharton was a rich
gentleman, he helped him home, and was invited in. Then he told some
story about his poverty, and so worked upon your uncle's feelings that
he hired him to read to him at five dollars a week."