"He seemed surprised, as if he had seen me some where before, and
recognized me," thought Frank, "but I don't remember him. If I had seen
his face before, I think I should remember it."

"Don't come out, uncle." said John Wade, when summoned to tea by the
housekeeper. "Mrs. Bradley and I are going to have a chat by ourselves,
and I will soon return."

"You are looking thin, Mr. John," said Mrs Bradley.

"Am I thinner than usual? I never was very corpulent, you know. How is
my uncle's health? He says he is well."

"He is pretty well, but he isn't as young as he was."

"I think he looks older," said John. "But that is not surprising--at his
age. He is seventy, isn't he?"

"Not quite. He is sixty-nine."

"His father died at seventy-one."

"Yes."

"But that is no reason why my uncle should not live till eighty. I hope
he will."

"We all hope so," said the housekeeper; but she knew, while she spoke,
that if, as she supposed, Mr. Wharton's will contained a generous legacy
for her, his death would not afflict her much. She suspected also that
John Wade was waiting impatiently for his uncle's death, that he might
enter upon his inheritance. Still, their little social fictions must be
kept up, and so both expressed a desire for his continued life, though
neither was deceived as to the other's real feeling on the subject.

"By the way, Mrs. Bradley," said John Wade, "how came my uncle to engage
that boy to read to him?"

"He was led into it, sir," said the housekeeper, with a great deal of
indignation, "by the boy himself. He's an artful and designing fellow,
you may rely upon it."

"What's his name?"

"Frank Fowler."

"Fowler! Is his name Fowler?" he repeated, with a startled expression.

"Yes, sir," answered the housekeeper, rather surprised at his manner.
"You don't know anything about him, do you?"

"Oh, no," said John Wade, recovering his composure. "He is a perfect
stranger to me; but I once knew a man of that name, and a precious
rascal he was. When you mentioned his name, I thought he might be a son
of this man. Does he say his father is alive?"

"No; he is dead, and his mother, too, so the boy says."

"You haven't told me how my uncle fell in with him?"

"It was an accident. Your uncle fell in getting out of a Broadway stage,
and this boy happened to be near, and seeing Mr. Wharton was a rich
gentleman, he helped him home, and was invited in. Then he told some
story about his poverty, and so w