I don't care to rush about as Frank is doing."

"You would if it were your own mother who was so ill."

"I am not sure. It wouldn't do any good, would it?"

"You would naturally feel anxious," said Herbert.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" answered Mark, indifferently.

Mark Manning was slender and dark, with a soft voice and rather
effeminate ways. He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys
delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but
liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the
campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves.

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