'You look like her,' Mr. Tracy said.
'Yes, sir,' Harold answered, while into his frank, open face there came
an expression of regret for the mother who had died when he was three
years old, and whose life had been so short and sad.
'Now, hurry off with the telegram, and mind you don't lose it. It is
from my brother. He is coming to-night.'
'Mr. Arthur Tracy, who sent the monument for my mother--is he coming
home? Oh, I am so glad!' Harold exclaimed, and his handsome face lighted
up with childish joy, as he put the telegram in his pocket and started
For Tracy Park, wondering if he should encounter Tom, and thinking that
if he did, and Tom gave him any chaff, he should lick him, or try to.
'Darn him!' he said to himself, as he recalled the many times when Tom
Tracy, a boy of his own age, had laughed at him for his poverty and
coarse clothes. 'Darn him! he ain't any better than I am, if he does
wear velvet trousers and live in a big house. 'Taint his'n; it's Mr.
Arthur's, and I'm glad he is coming home. I wonder if he will bring
grandma anything. I wish he'd I bring me a pyramid. He's seen 'em, they
say.'
Meantime, Mr. Frank Tracy had resumed his seat, and, with his hands
clasped together over his head, was wondering what effect his brother's
return would have upon him.
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