The Cash Boy

“Mother, isn’t there something you want me to do?”

“Nothing, I believe, Frank.”

“I thought you looked at me as if you wanted to say something.” “There is something I must say to you before I die.”

“Before you die, mother!” echoed Frank, in a startled voice.

“Yes. Frank, I am beginning to think that this is my last sickness.”

“But, mother, you have been so before, and got up again.”

“There must always be a last time, Frank; and my strength is too far reduced to rally again, I fear.”

“I can’t bear the thought of losing you, mother,” said Frank, deeply moved.

“You will miss me, then, Frank?” said Mrs. Fowler.

“Shall I not? Grace and I will be alone in the world.”

“Alone in the world!” repeated the sick woman, sorrowfully, “with little help to hope for from man, for I shall leave you nothing. Poor children!”

“That isn’t what I think of,” said Frank, hastily.

“I can support myself.”

“But Grace? She is a delicate girl,” said the mother, anxiously. “She cannot make her way as you can.”

“She won’t need to,” said Frank, promptly; “I shall take care of her.”

“But you are very young even to support yourself. You are only fourteen.”

“I know it, mother, but I am strong, and I am not afraid. There are a hundred ways of making a living.”

“But do you realize that you will have to start with absolutely nothing? Deacon Pinkerton holds a mortgage on this house for all it will bring in the market, and I owe him arrears of interest besides.”

“I didn’t know that, mother, but it doesn’t frighten me.”

“And you will take care of Grace?”

“I promise it, mother.”

“Suppose Grace were not your sister?” said the sick woman, anxiously scanning the face of the boy.

“What makes you suppose such a thing as that, mother? Of course she is my sister.”

“But suppose she were not,” persisted Mrs. Fowler, “you would not recall your promise?”

“No, surely not, for I love her. But why do you talk so, mother?” and a suspicion crossed Frank’s mind that his mother’s intellect might be wandering.

“It is time to tell you all, Frank. Sit down by the bedside, and I will gather my strength to tell you what must be told.”

“Grace is not your sister, Frank!”

“Not my sister, mother?” he exclaimed. “You are not in earnest?”

“I am quite in earnest, Frank.”

“Then whose child is she?”

“She is my child.”

“Then she must be my sister—are you not my mother?”

“No, Frank, I am not your mother!”

CHAPTER II

MRS. FOWLER’S STORY

“Not my mother!” he exclaimed. “Who, then, is my mother?”

“I cannot tell you, Frank. I never knew. You will forgive me for concealing this from you for so long.”

“No matter who was my real mother since I have you. You have been a mother to me, and I shall always think of you as such.”

“You make me happy, Frank, when you say that. And you will look upon Grace as a sister also, will you not?”

“Always,” said the boy, emphatically. “Mother, will you tell all you know about me? I don’t know what to think; now that I am not your son I cannot rest till I learn who I am.”

“I can understand your feelings, Frank, but I must defer the explanation till to-morrow. I have fatigued myself with talking, but to-morrow you shall know all that I can tell you.”

“Forgive me for not thinking of your being tired, mother,” and he bent over and pressed his lips upon the cheek of the sick woman. “But don’t talk any more. Wait till to-morrow.”

In the afternoon Frank had a call from Sam Pomeroy.

“The club is to play to-morrow afternoon against a picked nine, Frank,” he said. “Will you be there?”

“I can’t, Sam,” he answered. “My mother is very sick, and it is my duty to stay at home with her.”

“We shall miss you—that is, all of us but one. Tom Pinkerton said yesterday that you ought to resign, as you can’t attend to your duties. He wouldn’t object to filling your place, I fancy.”

“He is welcome to the place as soon as the club feels like electing him,” said Frank. “Tell the boys I am sorry I can’t be on hand. They had better get you to fill my place.”

“I’ll mention it, but I don’t think they’ll see it in that light. They’re all jealous of my superior playing,” said Sam, humorously. “Well, good-bye, Frank. I hope your mother’ll be better soon.”

“Thank you, Sam,” answered Frank, soberly. “I hope so, too, but she is very sick.”

The next day Mrs. Fowler again called Frank to the bedside.