“Did you tell him who you were, Thomas?” asked his mother.

“Catch me doing it!” said Tom. “I ain't quite a fool. I don't care about owning any pauper¹ relations.”

“He isn't a pauper,” said Mr. Stanton, who, hard man of the world as he was, could not forget that Herbert was the son of his sister.

“He's the next door to it,” said Tom, carelessly.

“Thomas is right,” said Mrs. Stanton. “You may depend upon it, Mr. Stanton, that when this boy finds you out, he will apply to you for assistance.”

“Possibly he may.”

“I hope you won't be such a fool as to encourage him in his application.”

“If he were in actual distress², my dear,” said Mr. Stanton, “I should feel that I ought to do something.”

“Then you'd allow yourself to be imposed upon, that's all I've got to say. There is no need of his being in distress. He is a stout³ boy, and capable of earning his own living.”

“He might get sick,” suggested Mr. Stanton, who was not so hard-hearted as his wife.

“Then let him go to the hospital. It's provided for such cases.”

“Is Herbert good-looking?” asked Maria, with interest.

“He won't get a prize for his beauty,” said Tom, disparagingly⁴.

“Is he homely⁵?”

“No,” said Tom, reluctantly. “I suppose he'll pass; but he's countrified. He hasn't got any style,” and he glanced complacently⁶ at his own reflection in a mirror, for Tom was vain of his personal appearance, though by no means as good-looking as Herbert. In fact, he was compelled secretly to confess this to himself, and for this reason was more than ever disposed to view his cousin with prejudice.

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