How are his wife and the poor little baby--and dear Ruth.

The funeral is to-morrow I see by the papers.

Yes, of course I'm going." As he spoke he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.
"Are you ill, my boy ?" he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to a seat on the sofa.

"You look terribly worn." "We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter," Jack replied with a glance at Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.
"Yes--but not you.

Out with it! Isaac doesn't count.