Arthur was scholarly in his tastes, quiet and gentlemanly in his
manners, with a musical voice which won him friends at once, while in
his soft black eyes there was a peculiar look of sadness, as if he were
brooding over something which filled him with regret. Frank was very
proud of his brother, and with Dorothy felt that he was honored when,
six months after their marriage, he came for a day or so to visit them,
and with him his intimate friend Harold Hastings, an Englishman by
birth, but so thoroughly Americanized as to pass unchallenged for a
native. There was a band of crape on Arthur's hat, and his manner was
like one trying to be sorry, while conscious of a great inward feeling
of resignation, if not content. The rich uncle was dead. He had died
suddenly in Paris, where he had gone on business, and the whole of his
vast fortune was left to his nephew Arthur--not a farthing to Frank, not
even the mention of his name in the will: and when Dorothy heard it she
put her white apron over her face, and cried as if her heart would
break. They were so poor, she and Frank, and they wanted so many things,
and the man who could have helped them was dead and had left them
nothing. It was hard, and she might not have made the young heir very
welcome if he had not ensured her that he should do something for her
husband.
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