had read it correctly. The
writing was somewhat illegible in spots and the signature was blotted,
but it was from Francis Strickland Morley. From "Little Frank!" I think
my first and greatest sensation was of tremendous surprise that there
really was a "Little Frank." Hephzy had been right. Once more I should
have to take off my hat to Hephzy.

The surprise remained, but other sensations came to keep it company. The
extraordinary fact of the letter's reaching me when and where it did,
in London, the city from which it was written and where, doubtless, the
writer still was. If I chose I might, perhaps, that very afternoon, meet
and talk with Ardelia Cahoon's son, with "Little Frank" himself. I could
scarcely realize it. Hephzy had declared that our coming to London was
the result of a special dispensation--we had been "sent" there. In the
face of this miracle I was not disposed to contradict her.

The letter itself was more extraordinary than all else. It was that of
a young person, of a hot-headed boy. But WHAT a boy he must be! What an
unlicked, impudent, arrogant young cub! The boyishness was evident in
every line, in the underscored words, the pitiful attempt at dignity and
the silly veiled threats. He was so insistent upon the statement that he
was not a beggar. And yet he could write a begging letter like this. He
did not ask for charity, not he, he demanded it. Demanded it--he, the
son of a thief, demanded, from those whom his father had robbed, his
"rights." He should have his rights; I would see to that.

I was angry enough but, as I read the letter for the third time, the
pitifulness of it became more apparent. I imagined Francis Strickland
Morley to be the replica of the Strickland Morley whom I remembered, the
useless, incompetent, inadequate son of a good-for-nothing father. No
doubt the father was responsible for such a letter as this having been
written. Doubtless he HAD told the boy all sorts of tales; perhaps he
HAD declared himself to be the defrauded instead of the defrauder; he
was quite capable of it. Possibly the youngster did believe he had a
claim upon the wealthy relatives in that "uncivilized" country, America.
The wealthy relatives! I thought of Captain Barnabas's last years, of
Hephzibah's plucky fight against poverty, of my own lost opportunities,
of the college course which I had been obliged to forego. My indignation
returned. I would not go back at once to Hephzy with the letter. I
woul