The boy paused as if the memory of some incident in which he was ridiculed was alive in his mind.  Peter’s eyes were still fixed on his face.

“Go on—­I’m listening; and what else hurts you?  Pour it all out.  That’s what I came for.  You said last night nobody would listen—­I will.”

“Well, then, I hate the sham of it all; the silly social distinctions; the fits and starts of hospitality; the dinners given for show.  Nothing else going on between times; even the music is hired.  I want to hear music that bubbles out—­old Hannah singing in the kitchen, and Tom, my father’s old butler, whistling to himself—­and the dogs barking, and the birds singing outside.  I’m ashamed of myself making comparisons, but that was the kind of life I loved, because there was sincerity in it.”

“No work?” There was a note of sly merriment in the inquiry, but Jack never caught it.

“Not much.  My father was Judge and spent part of the time holding court, and his work never lasted but a few hours a day, and when I wanted to go fishing or shooting, or riding with the girls, Mr. Larkin always let me off.  And I had plenty of time to read—­and for that matter I do here, if I lock myself up in this room.  That low library over there is full of my father’s books.”

Again Peter’s voice had a tinge of merriment in it.

“And who supported the family?” he asked in a lower voice.

“My father.”

“And who supported him?”

The question brought Jack to a full stop.  He had been running on, pouring out his heart for the first time since his sojourn in New York, and to a listener whom he knew he could trust.

“Why—­his salary, of course,” answered Jack in astonishment, after a pause.

“Anything else?”

“Yes—­the farm.”

“And who worked that?”

“My father’s negroes—­some of them his former slaves.”

“And have you any money of your own—­anything your father left you?”

“Only enough to pay taxes on some wild lands up in Cumberland County, and which I’m going to hold on to for his sake.”

Peter dropped his shading fingers, lifted his body from the depths of the easy chair and leaned forward so that the light fell full on his face.  He had all the information he wanted now.

“And now let me tell you my story, my lad.  It is a very short one.  I had the same sort of a home, but no father—­none that I remember—­and no mother, they both died before my sister Felicia and I were grown up.  At twelve I left school; at fifteen I worked in a country store—­up at daylight and to bed at midnight, often.  From twenty to twenty-five I was entry clerk in a hardware store; then book-keeper; then cashier in a wagon factory; then clerk in a village bank—­then book-keeper again in my present bank, and there I have been ever since.  My only advantages were a good constitution and the fact that I came of gentle people.  Here we are both alike—­you at twenty—­how old?—­twenty two? ...  Well, make it twenty-two. ...  You at twenty-two and I at twenty-two seem to have started out in life with the same natural advantages, so far as years and money go, but with this difference—­Shall I tell you what it is?”