“He was like a brother to me, Mr. Morley,” said Peters, “I have been with him for twenty-five years, and to find him as I did this morning⸺” his voice quavered and broke. Val clapped him on the shoulder gently.
“I know, Sam, I know. I loved the old man, myself. What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Me?” asked Peters. “I don’t know—don’t care much, now. I wouldn’t want to work for anybody else now, and yet⸺”
“Didn’t Mat have a sister somewhere?” asked Morley.
“Yes, his only relative. Lives out of town. She has been telegraphed for. She’ll probably be here to-day. What a homecoming!” They were silent for a brief space.
To Val the most pitiable object of it all was old Peters, whose life was wound around that of Masterson’s and the old bookshop. A man absolutely without friends, presumably, and whose only interest in life was his work here among these books which had been his friends and companions since his youth. He was old now—there was little more left in life for him—and now that little was to be ruthlessly taken away.
“I suppose she’ll sell the old shop,” he put in, tentatively.
“I suppose so,” sighed the old man.
“And then⸺”
“And then⸺” the old man sighed again. “I suppose I’ll be turned out, of course. Who would want to hire a man of my age? And even if I could get another job, I hate the thought of leaving this place. Tliis has not been a job for me, Mr. Morley,” said the old man. “It has been my home, my life. It
