Desk and Debit; or, The Catastrophes of a Clerk

"I must go to Chicago, father," said I, one evening, after we had been discussing our domestic relations with more than usual earnestness. "Why go to Chicago, Philip? What put that idea into your head?" replied my father, with a kind of deprecatory smile. "I don't feel as though I could live any longer in this state of doubt and uncertainty." "Really, Philip, I don't think you need worry yourself to that extent." "I can't help it. I want to know whether my mother is alive or dead. She may have been in her grave for a year for aught we know."