Mr. Twining glanced over it, and remarked, "This is your writing, Western;"
then taking Charlie's letter from the desk of Mr. Western, he asked, in a
doubting tone, "Is this your own writing and composition?"
"My own writing and composing," answered Charlie.
"And it is vewy cweditable to you, indeed," said Mr. Western.
Both the gentlemen looked at the note again, then at Charlie, then at
Esther, and lastly at each other; but neither seemed able to say anything,
and evident embarrassment existed on both sides.
"And so you thought you would twy for the situation," at last remarked Mr.
Western to Charlie.
"Yes, sir," he answered. "I was and am very anxious to obtain some
employment." "Have you a father?" asked Mr. Twining.
"Yes, sir; but he was badly injured by the mob last summer, and will never
be able to work again."
"That's a pity," said Western, sympathisingly; "and what have you been
doing?"
"Nothing very recently. I broke my arm last spring, and was obliged to go
into the country for my health. I have not long returned."
"Do your pawents keep house?"
"Not at present. We are staying with a friend. Our house was burned down by
the rioters."
This conversation recalled so vividly their past trials, that Esther's eyes
grew watery, and she dropped her veil to conceal a tear that was trembling
on the lid.
Pages:
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416