Then
something in the boy's face checked him, bringing to mind the
tragedy. "Yes, I read it all in the papers," he exclaimed in a
sympathetic voice. "Terrible, isn't it! Poor Minott. How are his
wife and the poor little baby--and dear Ruth. The funeral is to-
morrow I see by the papers. Yes, of course I'm going." As he spoke
he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.
"Are you ill, my boy?" he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to
a seat on the sofa. "You look terribly worn."
"We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter," Jack replied with a
glance at Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.
"Yes--but not you. Out with it! Isaac doesn't count. Anything you
can tell me you can tell him. What's the matter?--is it Ruth?"
Jack's face cleared. "No, she is lovely, and sent you her dearest
love."
"Then it's your work up in the valley?"
"No--we begin in a month. Everything's ready--or will be."
"Oh! I see, it's the loss of Minott. Oh, yes, I understand it all
now. Forgive me, Jack. I did not remember how intimate you and he
were once.
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