“From whom is your letter, my dear?” she asked, in the soft tone which was habitual with her when she addressed her husband.

“The handwriting is Carl’s,” answered Dr. Crawford, already devouring the letter eagerly.

“Oh!” she answered, in a chilly tone.  “I have been expecting you would hear from him.  How much money does he send for?”

“I have not finished the letter.”  Dr. Crawford continued reading.  When he had finished he laid it down beside his plate.

“Well?” said his wife, interrogatively.  “What does he have to say?  Does he ask leave to come home?”

“No; he is quite content where he is.”

“And where is that?”

“At Milford.”

“That is not far away?”

“No; not more than sixty miles.”

“Does he ask for money?”

“No; he is employed.”

“Where?”

“In a furniture factory.”

“Oh, a factory boy.”

“Yes; he is learning the business.”

“He doesn’t seem to be very ambitious,” sneered Mrs. Crawford.

“On the contrary, he is looking forward to being in business for himself some day.”

“On your money—­I understand.”

“Really, Mrs. Crawford, you do the boy injustice.  He hints nothing of the kind.  He evidently means to raise himself gradually as his employer did before him.  By the way, he has a home in his employer’s family.  I think Mr. Jennings must have taken a fancy to Carl.”

“I hope he will find him more agreeable than I did,” said Mrs. Crawford, sharply.

“Are you quite sure that you always treated Carl considerately, my dear?”

“I didn’t flatter or fondle him, if that is what you mean.  I treated him as well as he could expect.”

“Did you treat him as well as Peter, for example?”

“No.  There is a great difference between the two boys.  Peter is always respectful and obliging, and doesn’t set up his will against mine.  He never gives me a moment’s uneasiness.”

“I hope you will continue to find him a comfort, my dear,” said Dr. Crawford, meekly.

He looked across the table at the fat, expressionless face of his stepson, and he blamed himself because he could not entertain a warmer regard for Peter.  Somehow he had a slight feeling of antipathy, which he tried to overcome.

“No doubt he is a good boy, since his mother says so,” reflected the doctor, “but I don’t appreciate him.  I will take care, however, that neither he nor his mother sees this.”

When Peter heard his mother’s encomium upon him, he laughed in his sleeve.

“I’ll remind ma of that when she scolds me,” he said to himself.  “I’m glad Carl isn’t coming back.  He was always interferin’ with me.  Now, if ma and I play our cards right we’ll get all his father’s money.  Ma thinks he won’t live long, I heard her say so the other day.  Won’t it be jolly for ma and me to come into a fortune, and live just as we please!  I hope ma will go to New York.  It’s stupid here, but I s’pose we’ll have to stay for the present.”