“Now, dear papa, if you will send me money enough to pay for railroad tickets, Abner and I will start just as soon as we get it. I don't know as he ought to run away from home, but he says his father and mother don't care for him, and I don't believe they do. His father doesn't care for anything but whisky, and his mother is scolding him all the time. I don't think she would do that if she cared much for him, do you? “I have filled the paper, and must stop. Be sure to send the money to your loving son, “HERBERT REYNOLDS.” “How easy you write!” said Abner, in wonder, as he saw Herbert's letter growing long before his eyes. “It would take me a week to write as long a letter as that, and then I couldn't do it.” “I can't write so easy generally,” said the little boy, “but, you see, I have a good deal to write about.” “Then there's another thing,” said Abner. “I shouldn't know how to spell so many words. You must be an awful good scholar.” “I always liked to study,” said Herbert. “Don't you like to read and study?” “No; I'd rather play ball or go fishin', wouldn't you?” “I like to play part of the time, but I wouldn't like to grow up ignorant.” “I expect I'll always be a know-nothin', but I reckon I know as much as dad. The old man's awful ignorant. He don't care for nothin' but whisky.” “And I hope you won't be like him in that, Abner.” “No, I won't. I wouldn't like to have the boys flingin' stones at me, as they did at dad once when he was tight. I licked a couple of 'em.” Mrs. Estabrook read Herbert's letter with intense interest. She saw that the little boy's testimony would seriously incriminate Willis Ford, if he were recovered, as he would be if this letter came into his father's hands. “There's only one thing to do,” the housekeeper reflected, closing her thin lips tightly. She lit the gas jet in her chamber, and, without a trace of compunction, held the letter in the flame until it was thoroughly consumed. CHAPTER XXXII -- HOPE DEFERRED Day after day Herbert and Abner went to the post office and inquired for letters, but alas! none came. Poor Herbert was in despair. He thought his father would have instantly sent the money, or come out himself to take him home. Was it possible his father had forgotten him, or was indifferent to his absence? He could not believe it, but what was he to think? “I reckon your father didn't get the letter,” suggested Abner. Herbert hailed this suggestion with relief. “Or, maybe, marm has told the postmaster to give her any letters that come.” This suggestion, too, seemed not improbable. “What can we do?” asked Herbert, helplessly. “I reckon we'd better run away.” “Without money?” “We'll hire out to somebody for a week or two and write from where we are.” “I'm afraid I couldn't do much work,” said the little boy. “Then I'll work for both,” said Abner, stoutly. “I've got tired of stayin' at home, anyway.”