He didn't care for the rough sports in which most boys
delight; never played baseball or took part in athletic exercises, but
liked to walk about, sprucely dressed, and had even been seen on the
campus on a Saturday afternoon with his hands incased in kid gloves.
For this, however, he was so ridiculed and laughed at that he had to
draw them off and replace them in his pocket.
As Frank and Herbert walked together to the railway station, the latter
said:
"It seems to me, Frank, that the telegram should have been sent to you,
rather than to Mark Manning. You are the one who is most interested in
the contents."
"I thought of that, Herbert, but I was too much affected by the contents
to speak of it. I am not surprised, however. It is like Mr. Manning. It
jarred upon me to have him speak of mother as his wife. She is so, but I
never could reconcile myself to the fact."
"Do you remember your father--your own father, Frank?"
"You need not have said 'your own father.' I don't recognize Mr.
Manning as a father, at all. Yes, I remember him. I was eight years old
when he died. He was a fine-looking man, always kind--a man to be loved
and respected.
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