For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to draw them off and replace them in his pocket.

As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter said: 

“It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you, rather than to Mark Manning.  You are the one who is most interested in the contents.”

“I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents to speak of it.  I am not surprised, however.  It is like Mr. Manning.  It 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 there are some things far more so.”

They had reached the station by this time, and it was nearly the time for the train to start.  Frank bought his ticket, and the two friends shook hands and bade each other good-bye.

In an hour Frank was walking up the long avenue leading to the front door of the mansion.

The door was opened by his stepfather.

“How is mother?” asked Frank, anxiously.

“I am grieved to say that she is very sick,” said Mr. Manning, in a soft voice.  “She had a copious hemorrhage this morning, which has weakened her very much.”

“Is she in danger?” asked Frank, anxiously.

“I fear she is,” said Mr. Manning.

“I suppose I can see her?”

“Yes; but it will be better not to make her talk much.”

“I will be careful, sir.”

Frank waited no longer, but hurried to his mother’s chamber.  As he entered, and his glance fell on the bed and its occupant, he was shocked by the pale and ghastly appearance of the mother whom he so dearly loved.  The thought came to him at once: