"My boy! My boy!"
"I am ruined, mother--ruined!" He stood gazing wildly in front of him,
while the sheet of paper fluttered down on the carpet. Then he dropped
back into the chair, and sank his face into his hands. His mother
had her arms round him in an instant, while the Admiral, with shaking
fingers, picked up the letter from the floor and adjusted his glasses to
read it.
"Yours faithfully, "JEREMIAH PEARSON."
"And left me both a bankrupt and a thief."
"No, no, Harold," sobbed his mother. "All will be right. What matter
about money!"
"Money, mother! It is my honor."
"The boy is right. It is his honor, and my honor, for his is mine. This
is a sore trouble, mother, when we thought our life's troubles were all
behind us, but we will bear it as we have borne others." He held out
his stringy hand, and the two old folk sat with bowed grey heads, their
fingers intertwined, strong in each other's love and sympathy.
"We were too happy," she sighed.
"But it is God's will, mother."
"Yes, John, it is God's will."
"And yet it is bitter to bear. I could have lost all, the house, money,
rank--I could have borne it. But at my age--my honor--the honor of an
admiral of the fleet."