Mr. Morton, the father, had died in debt and distress, and the eldest son had been thankful for a clerkship in the office of Mr. Burford, a solicitor in considerable practice, and man of business to several of the county magnates.  Frank Morton was ... Read more

Mr. Morton, the father, had died in debt and distress, and the eldest son had been thankful for a clerkship in the office of Mr. Burford, a solicitor in considerable practice, and man of business to several of the county magnates.  Frank Morton was not remarkable for talent or enterprise, but he was plodding and trustworthy, methodical and accurate, and he had continued in the same position, except that time had made him senior instead of junior clerk.  Partly from natural disposition, partly from weight of responsibility, he had always been a grave, steady youth, one of those whom their contemporaries rank as sticks and muffs, because not exalted by youthful spirits or love of daring.  His mother and brother had always been his primary thought; and his recreations were of the sober-sided sort—the chess club, the institute, the choral society.  He was a useful, though not a distinguished, member of the choir of St. Basil’s Church, and a punctual and diligent Sunday-school teacher of the least interesting boys.  To most of the world of Hurminster he was almost invisible, to the rest utterly insignificant.  Even his mother was far less occupied with him than with his brother Charles, who was much handsomer, more amusing and spirited, as well as far less contented or easy to be reckoned upon.  But there was one person to whom he was everything, namely, little brown-eyed, soft-voiced Mary Marshall. Less