He was leaning on the trailer's shoulder and waiting for his turn in
the line in front of the ticket window, when a tall, gawky, good-
looking country lad sprang out of it and at him with an expression of
surprise and anxiety. "Father," he said, "father, what's wrong? What
are you doing here? Is anybody ill at home? Are _you_ ill?"
"Abraham," said the old man, simply, and dropped heavily on the
younger man's shoulder. Then he raised his head sternly and said: "I
thought you were murdered, but better that than a thief, Abraham. What
brought you here? What did you do with that rascal's letter? What did
you do with his money?"
The trailer drew cautiously away; the conversation was becoming
unpleasantly personal.
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Abraham, calmly. "The
Deacon gave his consent the other night without the $2,000, and I took
the $200 I'd saved and came right on in the fust train to buy the
ring. It's pretty, isn't it?" he said, flushing, as he pulled out a
little velvet box and opened it.
The old man was so happy at this that he laughed and cried
alternately, and then he made a grab for the trailer and pulled him
down beside him on one of the benches.
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