they were going to Chicago, and they drove away one bright morning, eighteen years ago. And not one word did we ever hear from Faith, or from David, not one word. It killed father and mother, the anxiety and the suspense. They died within a week of each other and less than a year after Faith went. Charity and I always wanted to go to Chicago and hunt for 'em, but there was the expense. We had only this farm, and the interest took every cent we could rake together. How on earth we'll pay it this year is more than I can see."
"What do you think was the reason they didn't write?" urged Miss Charity, in her gentle old voice. "There were almost three years 'fore you came along. Why couldn't they write? I know David was good to Faith—he worshiped her. So that couldn't have been the reason. Bob, is your father dead, too?"
"I'll tell you, though perhaps I shouldn't," said Bob slowly. "If I give you pain, remember it is better to hear It from me than from a stranger, as you otherwise might. Aunt Hope—and Aunt Charity—I was born in the Gladden county poorhouse, in the East."
There was a gasp from Miss Hope, but Bob hurried on, pretending not to hear.
"My father, they think, was killed in a railroad wreck," he said. "At least there was a bad
