"What are you thinking of, Frank?" asked Mrs. Fowler, noticing the boy's
fixed look.

"Mother," he said, earnestly, "I mean to seek for that man you have told
me of. I want to find out who I am. Do you think he was my father?"

"He said he was, but I do not believe it. He spoke with hesitation, and
said this to deceive us, probably."

"I am glad you think so, I would not like to think him my father. From
what you have told me of him I am sure I would not like him."

"He must be nearly fifty now--dark complexion, with dark hair and
whiskers. I am afraid that description will not help you any. There are
many men who look like that. I should know him by his expression, but I
cannot describe that to you."

Here Mrs. Fowler was seized with a very severe fit of coughing, and
Frank begged her to say no more.

Two days later, and Mrs. Fowler was no better. She was rapidly failing,
and no hope was entertained that she would rally. She herself felt
that death was near at hand and told Frank so, but he found it hard to
believe.

On the second of the two days, as he was returning from the village
store with an orange for his mother, he was overtaken by Sam Pomeroy.

"Is your mother very sick, Frank?" he asked.