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 you would, Frank," said Herbert. "Money is valuable, but there are some things far more so."
They had reached the station by this time, and it was nearly the time for the train to start. Frank bought his ticket, and the two friends shook hands and bade each other good-bye.
In an hour Frank was walking up the long avenue leading to the front door of the mansion.
The door was opened by his stepfather.
"How is mother?" asked Frank, anxiously.
"I am grieved to say that she is very sick," said Mr. Manning, in a soft voice. "She had a copious hemorrhage this morning, which has weakened her very much."
"Is she in danger?" asked Frank, anxiously.
"I fear she is," said Mr. Manning.
"I suppose I can see her?"
"Yes; but it will be better not to make her talk much."
"I will be careful, sir."
Frank waited no longer, but hurried to his mother's chamber. As he entered, and his glance fell on the bed and its occupant, he was shocked by the pale and ghastly appearance of the mother whom he so dearly loved. The thought came to him at once:
"She cannot live."
He found it difficult to repress a rising sob, but he did so for his mother's sake. He thought that it might affect her injuriously if he should display emotion.
His mother smiled faintly as he approached the bed.
"Mother," said Frank, kneeling by the bedside, "are you very weak?"
"Yes, Frank," she answered, almost in a whisper. "I think I am going to leave you."
"Oh, don't say that, mother!" burst forth in anguish from Frank's lips. "Try to live for my sake."
"I should like to live, my dear boy," whispered his mother; "but if it is God's will that I should die, I must be reconciled. I leave you in his care."
Here Mr. Manning entered the room.
"You will be kind to my boy?" said the dying mother.
"Can you doubt it, my dear?" replied her husband, in the soft tones Frank so much disliked. "I will care for him as if he were my own."
"Thank you. Then I shall die easy."
"Don't speak any more, mother. It will tire you, and perhaps bring on another hemorrhage."
"Frank is right, my dear. You had better not exert yourself any more at present."
"Didn't Mark come with you?" asked Mr. Manning of Frank.
"No, sir."
"I am surprised that he should not have done so. I sent for him as well as you."
"I believe he is coming by the next train," said Frank, indifferently. "He thought he could not get ready in time for my train."
"He should not have left you to come at such a time."
"I didn't wish him to inconvenience himself, Mr. Manning. If it had been his mother, it would have been different."
Mr. Manning did not reply. He understood very well that there was no love lost between Mark and his stepson.
CHAPTER III
FRANK'S BEREAVEMENT
Early in the evening Mark made his appearance. Supper had been over for an hour, and everything was cold. In a house where there is sickness, the regular course of things is necessarily interrupted, and, because he could not have his wants attended to immediately, Mark saw fit to grumble and scold the servants. He was not a favorite with them, and they did not choose to be bullied.
Deborah, who had been in the house for ten years, and so assumed the independence of an old servant, sharply reprimanded the spoiled boy.
"You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Mark," she said, "of making such a fuss when my poor mistress lies upstairs at the point of death."
"Do you know who you are talking to?" demanded Mark, imperiously, for he could, when speaking with those whom he regarded as inferiors, exchange his soft tones for a voice of authority.
"I ought to know by this time," answered Deborah, contemptuously. "There is no other in the house like you, I am glad to say."
"You are very impertinent. You forget that you are nothing but a servant."
"A servant has the right to be decently treated, Mr. Mark."
"If you don't look out," said Mark, in a blustering tone, "I will report you to my father, and have you kicked out of the house."
Deborah was naturally incensed at this rude speech, but she was spared the trouble of replying. Frank entered the room at this moment in time to hear Mark's last speech.
"What is this about being kicked out of the house?" he asked, looking from Mark to Deborah, in a tone of unconscious authority, which displeased his stepbrother.
"That is my business," replied Mark, shortly.
"Mr. Mark has threatened to have me kicked out of the house because he has to wait for his supper," said Deborah.
"It wasn't for that. It was because you were impertinent. All the same, I think it is shameful that I can't get anything to eat."
"I regret, Mark," said Frank, with cool sarcasm, "that you should be inconvenienced about your meals. Perhaps you will excuse it, as my poor mother is so sick that she requires extra attention from the servants. Deborah, if possible, don't let Mark wait much longer. It seems to be very important that he should have his supper."
"He shall have it," assured Deborah, rather enjoying the way in which Mark was put down; "that is, if he don't get me kicked out of the house."
"You had better not make any such threats in the future, Mark," said Frank, significantly.
"Who's to hinder?" blustered Mark.
"I am," answered Frank, pointedly.
"You are nothing but a boy like me," retorted Mark.
"My mother is mistress here, and I represent her."
"Things may change soon," muttered Mark; but Frank had left the room and did not hear him.
Mark did not trouble himself even to inquire for his stepmother, but went out to the stable and lounged about until bedtime. He seemed very much bored, and so expressed himself.
Frank wished to sit up all night with his mother, but, as she had a professional nurse, it was thought best that he should obtain his regular rest, the nurse promising to call the family if any change should be apparent in her patient's condition.
About half-past four in the morning there was a summons.
"Mrs. Manning is worse," said the nurse. "I don't think she can last long."
One last glance of love—though she could no longer speak—assured Frank that she knew him and loved him to the last.
The memory of that look often came back to him in the years that followed, and he would not have parted with it for anything that earth could give.
Just as the clock struck five, his mother breathed her last. The boy gazed upon the inanimate form, but he was dazed, and could not realize that his mother had left him, never to return.
"She is gone," said Mr. Manning, softly.
"Dead!" ejaculated Frank.
"Yes, her sufferings are over. Let us hope she is better off. My boy, I think you had better return to your bed. You can do nothing for your mother now."
"I would rather stay here," said Frank, sadly. "I can at least look at her, and soon I shall lose even that comfort."
The thought was too much for the poor boy, and he burst