WHEN LEGRAND BLOSSOM had taken his departure, carrying with him the books and papers, he left behind two very disconsolate persons.
“It’s terrible!” exclaimed Mr. Carwell’s sister. “To think that poor Horace could be so careless! I knew his sporting life would bring trouble, but I never dreamed of this.”
“We must face it, terrible as it is,” said Viola. “Nothing would matter if he—if he were only left to us. I’m sure he never meant to spend so much money. It was just because—he didn’t think.”
“That always was a fault of his,” sighed Miss Mary, “even when a boy. It’s terrible!”
“It’s terrible to have him gone and to think of the terrible way he was taken,” sighed Viola. “But anyone is likely to lose money.”
She no more approved of many of her late father’s sporting proclivities than di
