"Who are your folks?" she asked huskily.
By way of answer he handed out a soiled, crumpled envelope for her
inspection on which was written, "Reverend John Hapgood."
"Why--it's father!"
"What!" exclaimed Tabitha.
Her sister tore the note open with shaking fingers.
"It's from--Paul!" she breathed, hesitating a conscientious moment over
the name. Then she turned her startled eyes on the boy, who was
regarding her with lively interest.
"Do I belong to you?" he asked anxiously.
"I--I don't know. Who are you--what's your name?"
"Ralph Hapgood."
Tabitha had caught up the note and was devouring it with swift-moving
eyes.
"It's Paul's boy, Rachel," she broke in, "only think of it--Paul's boy!"
and she dropped the bit of paper and enveloped the lad in a fond but
tearful embrace.
He squirmed uneasily.
"I'm sorry I eat up my own folks's things. I'll go to work any time,"
he suggested, trying to draw away, and wiping a tear splash from the
back of his hand on his trousers.
But it was long hours before Ralph Hapgood was allowed to "go to work."
Tears, kisses, embraces, questions, a bath, and clean clothes followed
each other in quick succession--the clothes being some of his own
father's boyhood garments.
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