"If things go right, I won't live here much longer, nor will I stand behind the counter of a two-penny druggist's shop, at ten dollars a week."
"Ralph, here is your son," said Paul Morton, ushering the boy into the sick chamber of his father.
The sick man turned his face toward those who had just entered, and his face lighted up as his glance rested on his son.
"I am glad you have come, Robert," he said.
"Dear father," said Robert, bursting into tears, "how sick you are looking!"
"Yes, Robert," said Ralph Raymond feebly, "I am not long for this world. I have become very feeble, and I know that I shall never leave this chamber till I am carried out in my coffin."
"Don't say that, father," said Robert in tones of grief.
"It is best that you should know the truth, my son, especially, as my death cannot be long delayed."
"You will live some months, father, will you not?"
"I do not think I shall live a week, Robert," said his father. "The sands of my life are nearly run out; but I am not sorry. Life has lost its attractions for me, and my only desire to live would proceed from the reluctance I feel at leaving you."
"What shall I do without you, father?" asked the boy, his breast heaving with the painful sobs which he was trying in vain to repress.
"I shall not leave you wholly alone, my dear boy. I have arranged that you may be in charge of my old friend, Mr. Morton, who, I am sure will take the tenderest care of you, and try to be a father to you."
"Yes," said Paul, coming forward, "as your father says, I have promised to do for you what I can when he has left us. I would that he might be with us for many years, but since Providence in its inscrutable wisdom has ordained otherwise, we must bow to the stroke and do the best we can."
He put his fine cambric handkerchief to his eyes to wipe away the tears which were not there, and seemed affected by deep grief.
Robert cast a glance at the friend to whom he was to be consigned, but saw nothing to inspire confidence. There are some who almost unconsciously attract children, and draw young hearts to them in love and confidence. But Paul Morton was far from being one of the class. There was much in his crafty, insincere face to repel, little to attract, and so Robert judged, though he did not think of it at that time. He rather wondered why he felt so little drawn toward the man whom his father praised so highly; but the instincts of childhood were right; and the boy found no subsequent reason to correct his first impressions.