ONE DAY, about four months after Tom’s departure, John Simpson sat at his writing-desk, busy about some accounts, when Rupert entered the room in visible excitement.

“Father,” he said, “what do you think? Hiram Bacon died last night.”

In a village like Wilton the death of a well-known citizen, especially if it is sudden, creates excitement.

“You must be mistaken, Rupert,” said his father. “I saw Mr. Bacon no later than yesterday afternoon in the post-office.”

“He’s dead now,” persisted Rupert. “He was found dead in bed this morning. The doctor says he died of heart disease.”

“That’s very sudden,” said John Simpson, no longer incredulous. “I can hardly believe it.”

“I wonder where Tom Thatcher’s mother will live now,” continued Rupert.

“I didn’t think of that,” said his father, his face lighting up with satisfaction. “To be sure, it will be a great loss to her. She will lose a comfortable living.”

“I’m glad of it,” said Rupert.

“Rupert, Rupert, don’t rejoice over the misfortunes of your neighbors,” but he spoke very mildly.

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“I can’t help it father. I hate Tom Thatcher and all his relations.”

“You shouldn’t hate anybody, my son,” said Mr. Simpson; but his rebuke was very light.

“Don’t you hate anybody, father?”

“Ahem! not that I am aware of, my son.”

But when Rupert had left the room Mr. Simpson’s face betrayed his satisfaction.

“You won’t be quite so independent now, Mrs. Thatcher, I am thinking,” he soliloquized. “You’ll have a hard time getting along now. You’ll have to mortgage your place after all, and I will be on hand to advance the money. You won’t get any help from that vagabond son of yours. I shall live to see you all in the poor-house.”

There did not seem to be much difference between Rupert and the father who had just been preaching charity to him, but Mr. Simpson never quite removed the mask which concealed his real character, even in the presence of his own son, who, nevertheless, understood him better than the father suspected.

Yet weeks and even months passed, and Mrs. Thatcher did not appear to stand in need of money, nor, so far as John Simpson could find out, did she make any effort to mortgage her place. He did not know what the reader is already aware of—that she was living on the hundred dollars which Tom had left with her, added to the scanty amount which she was able to earn with her needle.

But though she still was able to live day by day, her240 face became more sad and anxious. She was famishing for news from Tom, yet no letter came from him. She knew, of course, that there would be a difficulty about writing when he was on the plains, but making all allowances for that, the time had come when she might expect to hear something. She could not know that at that very moment he was in captivity with the Indians, and if it had been made known to her it would only have increased her anxieties.

In her trouble the minister, Rev. Mr. Julian, was a friend and comforter. With him she shared her anxieties, and he said what he could to relieve her anxiety, though he, too, began to feel that something might have happened to his friend’s son.

“Don’t get discouraged, my dear friend,” said the minister. “It is a long and wearisome journey across the plains. I believe Tom is quite safe, and that you will soon receive tidings from him.”

“I wish I could feel so,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sadly. “Mr. Julian, he is my only boy. I have Tillie, but my hopes rested with him. I looked to Tom to be the prop of my old age. Without him my life will be worth nothing.”

“Don’t say that, Mrs. Thatcher. You will still have your daughter to live for. But don’t give up Tom. He is a manly boy, and will come back to you well and prosperous, if God wills.”

“But if he is well why doesn’t he write? He is not a boy to give me unnecessary anxiety by neglect.”

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