The boy's home life at this time would have seemed pathetic to an
observer,--the more pathetic, perhaps, in that Dick himself was not
aware of its exceptional barrenness. The holidays that bring new
brightness to the eyes of happier children were to him simply days
when he did not go to school, and was expected to provide an extra
quantity of kindling wood. He was housed, and fed, and clothed, after
a fashion, but not loved. Mr. Shackford did not ill-treat the lad, in
the sense of beating him; he merely neglected him. Every year the man
became more absorbed in his law cases and his money, which
accumulated magically. He dwelt in a cloud of calculations. Though
all his interests attached him to the material world, his dry,
attenuated body seemed scarcely a part of it.

"Shackford, what are you going to do with that scapegrace of
yours?"

It was Mr. Leonard Tappleton who ventured the question. Few
persons dared to interrogate Mr. Shackford on his private affairs.

"I am going to make a lawyer of him," said Mr. Shackford,
crackling his finger-joints like stiff parchment.

"You couldn't do better. You _ought_ to have an attorney in
the family."

"Just so," assented Mr. Shackford, dryly. "I could throw a bit of
business in his way now and then,--eh?"

"You could make his fortune, Shackford. I don't see but you might
employ him all the time. When he was not fighting the corporations,