"I congratulate you, Wilbur," said Phil, smiling. "You are all right, at least."

"The next gentleman!" said the attendant.

Phil entered the inner room, and looked about him in curiosity.

A tall woman sat upon a sort of throne, with one hand resting on a table beside her. A tall wax-taper supplied the place of the light of day, which was studiously excluded from the room by thick, dark curtains. Over the woman's face was a black veil, which gave her an air of mystery.

"Come hither, boy!" she said, in a clear, commanding voice.

Phil advanced, not wholly unimpressed, though he felt skeptical.

The woman bent forward, starting slightly and scanned his face eagerly.



CHAPTER XV.

PHIL AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

"Do you wish to hear of the past or the future?" asked the fortune-teller.

"Tell me something of the past," said Phil, with a view of testing the knowledge of the seeress.

"You have left an uncongenial home to seek your fortune in New York. You left without regret, and those whom you have left behind do not miss you."

Phil started in amazement. This was certainly true.

"Shall I find the fortune I seek?" asked our hero earnestly.

"Yes, but not in the way you expect. You think yourself alone in the world!"

The fortune-teller paused, and looked searchingly at the boy.

"So I am," returned Phil.

"No boy who has a father living can consider himself alone."

"My father is dead!" returned Phil, growing skeptical.

"You are mistaken."

"I am not likely to be mistaken in such a matter. My father died a few months since."

"Your father still lives!" said the fortune-teller sharply. "Do not contradict me!"

"I don't see how you can say that. I attended his funeral."

"You attended the funeral of the man whose name you bear. He was not your father."

Phil was much excited by this confirmation of his step-mother's story. He had entertained serious doubts of its being true, thinking it might have been trumped up by Mrs. Brent to drive him from home, and interfere with his succession to any part of Mr. Brent's property.

"Is my step-mother's story true, then?" he asked breathlessly. "She told me I was not the son of Mr. Brent."

"Her story was true," said the veiled lady.

"Who is my real father, then?"

The lady did not immediately reply. She seemed to be peering into distant space, as she said slowly:

"I see a man of middle size, dark-complexioned, leading a small child by the hand. He pauses before a house—it looks like an inn. A lady comes out from the inn. She is kindly of aspect. She takes the child by the hand and leads him into the inn. Now I see the man go away—alone. The little child remains behind. I see him growing up. He has become a large boy, but the scene has changed. The inn has disappeared. I see a pleasant village and a comfortable house. The boy stands at the door. He is well-grown now. A lady stands on the threshold as his steps turn away. She is thin and sharp-faced. She is not like the lady who welcomed the little child. Can you tell me who this boy is?" asked the fortune-teller, fixing her eyes upon Phil.

"It is myself!" he answers, his flushed face showing the excitement he felt.

"You have said!"

"I don't know how you have learned all this," said Phil, "but it is wonderfully exact. Will you answer a question?"

"Ask!"

"You say my father—my real father—is living?"

The veiled lady bowed her head.

"Where is he?"

"That I cannot say, but he is looking for you."

"He is in search of me?"

"Yes."

"Why has he delayed it so long?"

"There are circumstances which I cannot explain which have prevented his seeking and claiming you."

"Will he do so?"

"I have told you that he is now seeking for you. I think he will find you at last."

"What can I do to bring this about?"

"Do nothing! Stay where you are. Circumstances are working favorably, but you must wait. There are some drawbacks."

"What are they?"

"You have two enemies, or rather one, for the other does not count."

"Is that enemy a man?"

"No, it is a woman."

"My step-mother!" ejaculated Phil, with immediate conviction.

"You have guessed aright."

"And who is the other?"

"A boy."

"Jonas?"

"It is the son of the woman whom you call your step-mother."

"What harm can they do me? I am not afraid of them," said Phil, raising his head proudly.

"Do not be too confident! The meanest are capable of harm. Mrs. Brent does not like you because she is a mother."

"She fears that I will interfere with her son."

"You are all right."

"Is there anything more you can tell me?" asked Phil. "Have I any other enemies?"

"Yes; there are two more—also a woman and her son."

"That puzzles me. I can think of no one."

"They live in the city."

"I know. It is Mrs. Pitkin, my employer's wife. Why should she dislike me?"

"There is an old man who likes you. That is the cause."

"I see. She doesn't want him to be kind to any one out of the family."

"That is all I have to tell you," said the fortune-teller abruptly. "You can go."

"You have told me strange things," said Phil. "Will you tell me how it is you know so much about a stranger?"

"I have nothing more to tell you. You can go!" said the veiled lady impatiently.

"At least tell me how much I am to pay you."

"Nothing."

"But I thought you received fees."

"Not from you."

"Did you not take something from my friend who was in here before me?"

"Yes."

"You told him a good fortune."

"He is a fool!" said the fortune-teller contemptuously. "I saw what he wanted and predicted it."

She waved her hand, and Phil felt that he had no excuse for remaining longer.

He left the room slowly, and found Mr. Wilbur anxiously awaiting him.

"What did she tell you, Phil?" he asked eagerly. "Did she tell you what sort of a wife you would have?"

"No. I didn't ask her," answered Phil, smiling.

"I should think you'd want to know. What did she tell you, then?"

"She told me quite a number of things about my past life and the events of my childhood."

"I shouldn't have cared about that," said Wilbur, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, I know all about that myself. What I want to know about is, whether I am to marry the girl I adore."

"But you see, Wilbur, I don't adore anybody. I am not in love as you are."

"Of course that makes a difference," said Wilbur. "I'm glad I came, Phil. Ain't you?"

"Yes," answered Phil slowly.

"You see, it's such a satisfaction to know that all is coming right at last. I am to marry HER, you know, and although it isn't till I am twenty-four——"

"She will be nearly thirty by that time," said Phil slyly.

"She won't look it!" said Mr. Wilbur, wincing a little. "When I am thirty I shall be worth twenty thousand dollars."

"You can't save it very soon out of six dollars a week."

"That is true. I feel sure I shall be raised soon. Did the fortune-teller say anything about your getting rich?"

"No. I can't remember that she did. Oh, yes! she said I would make my fortune, but not in the way I expected."

"That is queer!" said Mr. Wilbur, interested. "What could she mean?"

"I suppose she meant that I would not save a competence out of five dollars a week."

"Maybe so."

"I have been thinking, Wilbur, you have an advantage over the young lady you are to marry. You know that you are to marry her, but she doesn't know who is to be her husband."

"That is true," said Wilbur seriously. "If I can find out her name, I will write her an anonymous letter, asking her to call on the veiled Lady."



CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. BRENT'S STRANGE TEMPTATION.

Now that Phil is fairly established in the city, circumstances require us to go back to the country town which he had once called home.

Mrs. Brent is sitting, engaged with her needle, in the same room where she had made the important revelation to Phil.

Jonas entered the house, stamping the snow from his boots.

"Is supper most ready, mother?" he asked.

"No, Jonas; it is only four o'clock," replied Mrs. Brent.

"I'm as hungry as a bear. I guess it's the skating."

"I wish you would go to the post-office before supper, Jonas. There might be a letter."

"Do you expect to hear from Phil?"

"He said nothing about writing," said Mrs. Brent indifferently. "He will do as he pleases about it."

"I did'nt know but he would be writing for money," chuckled Jonas.

"If he did, I would send him some," said Mrs. Brent.

"You would!" repeated Jonas, looking at his mother in surprise.

"Yes, I would send him a dollar or two, so that people needn't talk. It is always best to avoid gossip."

"Are you expecting a letter from anybody, mother?" asked Jonas, after a pause.

"I dreamed last night I should receive an important letter," said Mrs. Brent.

"With money in it?" asked Jonas eagerly.

"I don't know."

"If any such letter comes, will you give me some of the money?"

"If you bring me a letter containing money," said Mrs. Brent, "I will give you a dollar."

"Enough said!" exclaimed Jonas, who was fond of money; "I'm off to the post-office at once."

Mrs. Brent let the work fall into her lap and looked intently before her. A flush appeared on her pale face, and she showed signs of restlessness.

"It is strange," she said to herself, "how I have allowed myself to be affected by that dream. I am not superstitious, but I cannot get over the idea that a letter will reach me to-night, and that it will have an important bearing upon my life. I have a feeling, too, that it will relate to the boy Philip."

She rose from her seat and began to move about the room. It was a relief to her in the restless state of her mind. She went to the window to look for Jonas, and her excitement rose as she saw him approaching. When he saw his mother looking from the window, he held aloft a letter.

"The letter has come," she said, her heart beating faster than its wont. "It is an important letter. How slow Jonas is."

And she was inclined to be vexed at the deliberation with which her son was advancing toward the house.

But he came at last.

"Well, mother, I've got a letter—a letter from Philadelphia," he said. "It isn't from Phil, for I know his writing."

"Give it to me, Jonas," said his mother, outwardly calm, but inwardly excited.

"Do you know any one in Philadelphia, mother?"

"No."

She cut open the envelope and withdrew the inclosed sheet.

"Is there any money in it?" asked Jonas eagerly.

"No."

"Just my luck!" said Jonas sullenly.

"Wait a minute," said his mother. "If the letter is really important, I'll give you twenty-five cents."

She read the letter, and her manner soon showed that she was deeply interested.

We will look over her shoulders and read it with her:

"CONTINENTAL HOTEL, PHILADELPHIA, Feb. 5.

"DEAR MADAM:—

"I write to you on a matter of the greatest importance to my happiness, and shall most anxiously await your reply. I would come to you in person, but am laid up with an attack of rheumatism, and my physician forbids me to travel.

"You are, as I have been informed, the widow of Gerald Brent, who thirteen years since kept a small hotel in the small village of Fultonville, in Ohio. At that date I one day registered myself as his guest. I was not alone. My only son, then a boy of three, accompanied me. My wife was dead, and my affections centered upon this child. Yet the next morning I left him under the charge of yourself and your husband, and pursued my journey. From that day to this I have not seen the boy, nor have I written to you or Mr. Brent. This seems strange, does it not? It requires an explanation, and that explanation I am ready to give.

"To be brief, then, I was fleeing from undeserved suspicion. Circumstances which I need not detail had connected my name with the mysterious disappearance of a near friend, and the fact that a trifling dispute between us had taken place in the presence of witnesses had strengthened their suspicions. Knowing myself to be innocent, but unable to prove it, I fled, taking my child with me. When I reached Fultonville, I became alive to the ease with which I might be traced, through the child's companionship. There was no resource but to leave him. Your husband and yourself impressed me as kind and warm-hearted. I was specially impressed by the gentleness with which you treated my little Philip, and I felt that to you I could safely trust him. I did not, however, dare to confide my secret to any one. I simply said I would leave the boy with you till he should recover from his temporary indisposition, and then, with outward calmness but inward anguish, I left my darling, knowing not if I should ever see him again.

"Well, time passed. I went to Nevada, changed my name, invested the slender sum I had with me in mining, and, after varying fortune, made a large fortune at last. But better fortune still awaited me. In a poor mining hut, two months since, I came across a man who confessed that he was guilty of the murder of which I had been suspected. His confession was reduced in writing, sworn to before a magistrate, and now at last I feel myself a free man. No one now could charge me with a crime from which my soul revolted.

"When this matter was concluded, my first thought was of the boy whom I had not seen for thirteen long years. I could claim him now before all the world; I could endow him with the gifts of fortune; I could bring him up in luxury, and I could satisfy a father's affectionate longing. I could not immediately ascertain where you were. I wrote to Fultonville, to the postmaster, and learned that you and Mr. Brent had moved away and settled down in Gresham, in the State of New York. I learned also that my Philip was still living, but other details I did not learn. But I cared not, so long as my boy still lived.

"And now you may guess my wish and my intention. I shall pay you handsomely for your kind care of Philip, but I must have my boy back again. We have been separated too long. I can well understand that you are attached to him, and I will find a home for you and Mr. Brent near my own, where you can see as often as you like the boy whom you have so tenderly reared. Will you do me the favor to come at once, and bring the boy with you? The expenses of your journey shall, of course, be reimbursed, and I will take care that the pecuniary part of my obligations to you shall be amply repaid. I have already explained why I cannot come in person to claim my dear child.

"Telegraph to me when you will reach Philadelphia, and I will engage a room for you. Philip will stay with me.

"Yours gratefully,

"OSCAR GRANVILLE."

"Mother, here is a slip of paper that has dropped from the letter," said Jonas.

He picked up and handed to his mother a check on a Philadelphia bank for the sum of one hundred dollars.

"Why, that's the same as money, isn't it?" asked Jonas.

"Yes, Jonas."

"Then you'll keep your promise, won't you?"

Mrs. Brent silently drew from her pocket-book a two-dollar bill and handed it to Jonas.

"Jonas," she said, "if you won't breathe a word of it, I will tell you a secret."

"All right, mother."

"We start for Philadelphia to-morrow."

"By gosh! that's jolly," exclaimed Jonas, overjoyed. "I'll keep mum. What was in the letter, mother?"

"I will not tell you just now. You shall know very soon."

Mrs. Brent did not sleep much that night. Her mind was intent upon a daring scheme of imposture. Mr. Granville was immensely wealthy, no doubt. Why should she not pass off Jonas upon him as his son Philip, and thus secure a fortune for her own child?



CHAPTER XVII.

JONAS JOINS THE CONSPIRACY.

Later in the evening Mrs. Brent took Jonas into her confidence. She was a silent, secretive woman by nature, and could her plan have been carried out without imparting it to any one, she would gladly have had it so. But Jonas must be her active accomplice, and it was as well to let him know at once what he must do.

In the evening, when Jonas, tired with his day's skating, was lying on the lounge, Mrs. Brent rose deliberately from her seat, peeped into the adjoining room, then went to each window to make sure there was no eavesdropper, then resumed her seat and said:

"Jonas, get up. I want to speak to you."

"I am awfully tired, mother. I can hear you while I lie here."

"Jonas, do you hear me? I am about to speak to you of something no other person must hear. Get a chair and draw it close to mine."

Jonas rose, his curiosity stimulated by his mother's words and manner.

"Is it about the letter, mother?" he asked.

"Yes, it relates to the letter and our journey to-morrow."

Jonas had wondered what the letter was about and who had sent his mother the hundred-dollar check, and he made no further objection. He drew a chair in front of his mother and said:

"Go ahead, mother, I'm listening."

"Would you like to be rich, Jonas?" asked Mrs. Brent.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Would you like to be adopted by a very rich man, have a pony to ride, plenty of pocket-money, fine clothes and in the end a large fortune?"

"That would just suit me, mother," answered the boy eagerly. "Is there any chance of it?"

"Yes, if you follow my directions implicitly."

"I will, mother," said Jonas, his eyes shining with desire. "Only tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"Do you remember what I told Philip the evening before he went away?"

"About his being left at Mr. Brent's hotel? Yes, I remember it."

"And about his true father having disappeared?"

"Yes, yes."

"Jonas, the letter I received this afternoon was from Philip's real father."

"By gosh!" ejaculated Jonas, altering his usual expression of surprise.

"He is in Philadelphia. He is a very rich man."

"Then Phil will be rich," said Jonas, disappointed. "I thought you said it would be me."

"Philip's father has never seen him since he was three years old," continued Mrs. Brent, taking no notice of her son's tone.

"What difference does that make, mother?"

"Jonas," said Mrs. Brent, bending toward her son, "if I choose to tell him that you are Philip, he won't know the difference. Do you understand?"

Jonas did understand.

"That's a bully idea, mother! Can we pull the wool over the old man's eyes, do you think?"

"I wish you would not use such expressions, Jonas. They are not gentlemanly, and you are to be a young gentleman."

"All right, mother."

"We can manage it if you are very careful. It is worth the trouble, Jonas. I think Mr. Granville—that is his name—must be worth a quarter of a million dollars, and if he takes you for Philip the whole will probably go to you."

"What a head you've got, mother!" exclaimed Jonas admiringly. "It is a tip-top chance."

"Yes, it is one chance in ten thousand. But you must do just as I tell you."

"Oh, I'll do that, mother. What must I do?"

"To begin with, you must take Philip's name. You must remember that you are no longer Jonas Webb, but Philip Brent."

"That'll be a bully joke!" said Jonas, very much amused. "What would Phil say if he knew I had taken his name?"

"He must not know. Henceforth we must endeavor to keep out of his way. Again, you must consider me your step-mother, not your own mother."

"Yes, I understand. What are you going to do first, mother?"

"We start for Philadelphia to-morrow. Your father is lying sick at the Continental Hotel."

Jonas roared with delight at the manner in which his mother spoke of the sick stranger.

"Oh, it'll be fun, mother! Shall we live in Philadelphia?"

"I don't know. That will be as Mr. Granville thinks best."

"Where are you going, mother? Are you going to live here?"

"Of course I shall be with you. I will make that a condition. I cannot be parted from my only boy."

"But I shall be Mr. Granville's boy."

"To the public you will be. But when we are together in private, we shall be once more mother and son."

"I am afraid you will spoil all," said Jonas. "Old Granville will suspect something if you seem to care too much for me."

The selfish nature of Jonas was cropping out, and his mother felt, with a pang, that he would be reconciled to part with her forever for the sake of the brilliant prospects and the large fortune which Mr. Granville could offer him.

She was outwardly cold, but such affection as she was capable of she expended on this graceless and ungrateful boy.

"You seem to forget that I may have some feeling in the matter," said Mrs. Brent coldly, but with inward pain. "If the result of this plan were to be that we should be permanently separated, I would never consent to it."

"Just as you like, mother," said Jonas, with an ill grace. "I don't look much like Phil."

"No, there will be a difficulty. Still Mr. Granville has never seen Philip since he was three years old, and that is in our favor. He thinks I am Mr. Brent's first wife."

"Shall you tell him?"

"I don't know. I will be guided by circumstances. Perhaps it may be best. I wouldn't like to have it discovered that I had deceived him in that."

"How are you going to manage about this place, mother?"

"I am going to write to your Uncle Jonas to take charge of it. I will let him have it at a nominal rent. Then, if our plan miscarries we shall have a place to come back to."

"Were you ever in Philadelphia, mother?"

"No; but there will be no trouble in journeying there. I shall pack your clothes and my own to-night. Of course, Jonas, when you meet Mr. Granville you must seem to be fond of him. Then you must tell him how kind I have been to you. In fact, you must act precisely as Philip might be expected to do."

"Yes, mother; and you must be careful not to call me Jonas. That will spoil all, you know."

"Rest assured that I shall be on my guard. If you are as careful as I am, Philip——"

Jonas burst into a guffaw at the new name.

"It's just like play-acting, mother," he said.

"But it will pay better," said Mrs. Brent quietly. "I think it will be best for me to begin calling you Philip at once—that is, as soon as we have left town—so that we may both get accustomed to it."

"All right, mother. You've got a good headpiece."

"I will manage things properly. If you consent to be guided by me, all will be right."

"Oh, I'll do it mother. I wish we were on our way."

"You can go to bed if you like. I must stay up late to-night. I have to pack our trunks."

The next day the pair of adventurers left Gresham. From the earliest available point Mrs. Brent telegraphed to Mr. Granville that she was on her way, with the son from whom he had so long been separated.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CONSPIRACY SUCCEEDS.

In a handsome private parlor at the Continental Hotel a man of about forty-five years of age sat in an easy-chair. He was of middle height, rather dark complexion, and a pleasant expression. His right foot was bandaged, and rested on a chair. The morning Daily Ledger was in his hand, but he was not reading. His mind, judging from his absorbed look, was occupied with other thoughts.

"I can hardly realize," he said half-aloud, "that my boy will so soon be restored to my arms. We have been separated by a cruel fate, but we shall soon be together again. I remember how the dear child looked when I left him at Fultonville in the care of the kind inn-keeper. I am sorry he is dead, but his widow shall be suitably repaid for her kind devotion."

He had reached this point when a knock was heard at the door.

"Come in!" said Mr. Granville.

A servant of the hotel appeared.

"A lady and a boy are in the parlor below, sir. They wish to see you."

Though Mr. Granville had considerable control over his feelings, his heart beat fast when he heard these words.

"Will you show them up at once?" he said, in a tone which showed some trace of agitation.

The servant bore the message to Mrs. Brent and Jonas, who were sitting in the hotel parlor.

If Mr. Granville was agitated, the two conspirators were not wholly at their ease. There was a red spot on each of Mrs. Brent's cheeks—her way of expressing emotion—and Jonas was fidgeting about uneasily in his chair, staring about him curiously.

"Mind what I told you," said his mother, in a low voice. "Remember to act like a boy who has suddenly been restored to his long-lost father. Everything depends on first impressions."

"I wish it was all over; I wish I was out of it," said Jonas, wiping the perspiration from his face. "Suppose he suspects?"

"He won't if you do as I tell you. Don't look gawky, but act naturally."

Just then the servant reappeared.

"You are to come up-stairs," he said. "The gentleman will see you."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Brent, rising. "Come."

Jonas rose, and with the manner of a cur that expected a whipping, followed his mother and the servant.

"It's only one flight," said the servant, "but we can take the elevator."

"It is of no consequence," Mrs. Brent began, but Jonas said eagerly:

"Let's ride on the elevator, ma!"

"Very well, Philip," said Mrs. Brent.

A minute later the two stood at the door of Mr. Granville's room. Next they stood in his presence.

Mr. Granville, looking eagerly toward the door, passed over Mrs. Brent, and his glance rested on the boy who followed her. He started, and there was a quick feeling of disappointment. He had been picturing to himself how his lost boy would look, but none of his visions resembled the awkward-looking boy who stood sheepishly by the side of Mrs. Brent.

"Mr. Granville, I presume," said the lady.

"Yes, madam. You are——"

"Mrs. Brent, and this," pointing to Jonas, "is the boy you left at Fultonville thirteen years ago. Philip, go to your father."

Jonas advanced awkwardly to Mr. Granville's chair, and said in parrot-like tones:

"I'm so glad to see you, pa!"

"And you are really Philip?" said Mr. Granville slowly.

"Yes, I'm Philip Brent; but I suppose my name is Granville now."

"Come here, my boy!"

Mr. Granville drew the boy to him, and looked earnestly in his face, then kissed him affectionately.

"He has changed since he was a little child, Mrs. Brent," he said, with a half-sigh.

"That's to be expected, sir. He was only three years old when you left him with us."

"But it seems to me that his hair and complexion are lighter."

"You can judge of that better than I," said Mrs. Brent plausibly. "To me, who have seen him daily, the change was not perceptible."

"I am greatly indebted to you for your devoted care—to you and your husband. I am grieved to hear that Mr. Brent is dead."

"Yes, sir; he left me six months since. It was a grievous loss. Ah, sir, when I give up Philip also, I shall feel quite alone in the world," and she pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. "You see, I have come to look upon him as my own boy!"

"My dear madam, don't think that I shall be so cruel as to take him from you. Though I wish him now to live with me, you must accompany him. My home shall be yours if you are willing to accept a room in my house and a seat at my table."

"Oh, Mr. Granville, how can I thank you for your great kindness? Ever since I received your letter I have been depressed with the thought that I should lose dear Philip. If I had a child of my own it would be different; but, having none, my affections are centered upon him."

"And very naturally," said Mr. Granville. "We become attached to those whom we benefit. Doubtless he feels a like affection for you. You love this good lady, Philip, who has supplied to you the place of your own mother, who died in your infancy, do you not?"

"Yes, sir," answered Jonas stolidly. "But I want to live with my pa!"

"To be sure you shall. My boy, we have been separated too long already. Henceforth we will live together, and Mrs. Brent shall live with us."

"Where do you live, pa?" asked Jonas.

"I have a country-seat a few miles from Chicago," answered Mr. Granville. "We will go there as soon as I am well enough. I ought to apologize, Mrs. Brent, for inviting you up to my room, but my rheumatism makes me a prisoner."

"I hope your rheumatism will soon leave you, sir."

"I think it will. I have an excellent physician, and already I am much better. I may, however, have to remain here a few days yet."

"And where do you wish Philip and I to remain in the meantime?"

"Here, of course. Philip, will you ring the bell?"

"I don't see any bell," answered Jonas, bewildered.

"Touch that knob!"

Jonas did so.

"Will that ring the bell?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, it is an electric bell."

"By gosh!" ejaculated Jonas.

"Don't use such language, Philip!" said Mrs. Brent hastily. "Your father will be shocked. You see, Mr. Granville, Philip has associated with country boys, and in spite of my care, he has adopted some of their language."

Mr. Granville himself was rather disturbed by this countrified utterance, and it occurred to him that his new-found son needed considerable polishing.

"Ah, I quite understand that, Mrs. Brent," he said courteously. "He is young yet, and there will be plenty of time for him to get rid of any objectionable habits and phrases."

Here the servant appeared.

"Tell the clerk to assign this lady and the boy rooms on this floor if any are vacant. Mrs. Brent, Philip may have a room next to you for the present. When I am better I will have him with me. John, is dinner on the table?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, after taking possession of your rooms, you and Philip had better go to dinner. I will send for him later."

"Thank you, sir."

As Mrs. Brent was ushered into her handsome apartment her face was radiant with joy and exultation.

"All has gone well!" she said. "The most difficult part is over."



CHAPTER XIX.

A NARROW ESCAPE FROM DETECTION.

The conspiracy into which Mrs. Brent had entered was a daring one, and required great coolness and audacity. But the inducements were great, and for her son's sake she decided to carry it through. Of course it was necessary that she should not be identified with any one who could disclose to Mr. Granville the deceit that was being practiced upon him. Circumstances lessened the risk of detection, since Mr. Granville was confined to his room in the hotel, and for a week she and Jonas went about the city alone.

One day she had a scare.

She was occupying a seat in a Chestnut Street car, while Jonas stood in front with the driver, when a gentleman whom she had not observed, sitting at the other end of the car, espied her.

"Why, Mrs. Brent, how came you here?" he asked, in surprise, crossing over and taking a seat beside her.

Her color went and came as, in a subdued tone, she answered.

"I am in Philadelphia on a little visit, Mr. Pearson."

"Are you not rather out of your latitude?" asked the gentleman.

"Yes, perhaps so."

"How is Mr. Brent?"

"Did you not hear that he was dead?"

"No, indeed! I sympathize with you in your sad loss."

"Yes," sighed the widow. "It is a great loss to us."

"I suppose Jonas is a large boy now," said the other. "I haven't seen him for two or three years."

"Yes, he has grown," said the widow briefly. She hoped that Mr. Pearson would not discover that Jonas was with her, as she feared that the boy might betray them unconsciously.

"Is he with you?"

"Yes."

"Do you stay long in Philadelphia?"

"No, I think not," answered Mrs. Brent.

"I go back to New York this afternoon, or I would ask permission to call on you."

Mrs. Brent breathed more freely. A call at the hotel was by all means to be avoided.

"Of course I should have been glad to see you," she answered, feeling quite safe in saying so. "Are you going far?"

"I get out at Thirteenth Street."

"Thank Heaven!" said Mrs. Brent to herself. "Then he won't discover where we are."

The Continental Hotel is situated at the corner of Chestnut and Ninth Streets, and Mrs. Brent feared that Jonas would stop the car at that point. As it was, the boy did not observe that his mother had met an acquaintance, so intent was he on watching the street sights.

When they reached Ninth Street mother and son got out and entered the hotel.

"I guess I'll stay down stairs awhile," said Jonas.

"No, Philip, I have something to say to you. Come up with me."

"I want to go into the billiard-room," said Jonas, grumbling.

"It is very important," said Mrs. Brent emphatically.

Now the curiosity of Jonas was excited, and he followed his mother into the elevator, for their rooms were on the third floor.

"Well, mother, what is it?" asked Jonas, when the door of his mother's room was closed behind them.

"I met a gentleman who knew me in the horse-car," said Mrs. Brent abruptly.

"Did you? Who was it?"

"Mr. Pearson."

"He used to give me candy. Why didn't you call me?"

"It is important that we should not be recognized," said his mother. "While we stay here we must be exceedingly prudent. Suppose he had called upon us at the hotel and fallen in with Mr. Granville. He might have told him that you are my son, and that your name is Jonas, not Philip."

"Then the fat would be in the fire!" said Jonas.

"Exactly so; I am glad you see the danger. Now I want you to stay here, or in your own room, for the next two or three hours."

"It'll be awfully tiresome," grumbled Jonas.

"It is necessary," said his mother firmly. "Mr. Pearson leaves for New York by an afternoon train. It is now only two o'clock. He left the car at Thirteenth Street, and might easily call at this hotel. It is a general rendezvous for visitors to the city. If he should meet you down stairs, he would probably know you, and his curiosity would be aroused. He asked me where I was staying, but I didn't appear to hear the question."

"That's pretty hard on me, ma."

"I am out of all patience with you," said Mrs. Brent. "Am I not working for your interest, and you are doing all you can to thwart my plans. If you don't care anything about inheriting a large fortune, let it go! We can go back to Gresham and give it all up."

"I'll do as you say, ma," said Jonas, subdued.

The very next day Mr. Granville sent for Mrs. Brent. She lost no time in waiting upon him.

"Mrs. Brent," he said, "I have decided to leave Philadelphia to-morrow."

"Are you quite able, sir?" she asked, with a good assumption of sympathy.

"My doctor tells me I may venture. We shall travel in Pullman cars, you know. I shall secure a whole compartment, and avail myself of every comfort and luxury which money can command."

"Ah, sir! money is a good friend in such a case."

"True, Mrs. Brent. I have seen the time when I was poorly supplied with it. Now I am happily at ease. Can you and Philip be ready?"

"Yes, Mr. Granville," answered Mrs. Brent promptly. "We are ready to-day, for that matter. We shall both be glad to get started."

"I am glad to hear it. I think Philip will like his Western home. I bought a fine country estate of a Chicago merchant, whose failure compelled him to part with it. Philip shall have his own horse and his own servants."

"He will be delighted," said Mrs. Brent warmly. "He has been used to none of these things, for Mr. Brent and I, much as we loved him, had not the means to provide him with such luxuries."

"Yes, Mrs. Brent, I understand that fully. You were far from rich. Yet you cared for my boy as if he were your own."

"I loved him as much as if he had been my own son, Mr. Granville."

"I am sure you did. I thank Providence that I am able to repay to some extent the great debt I have incurred. I cannot repay it wholly, but I will take care that you, too, shall enjoy ease and luxury. You shall have one of the best rooms in my house, and a special servant to wait upon you."

"Thank you, Mr. Granville," said Mrs. Brent, her heart filled with proud anticipations of the state in which she should hereafter live. "I do not care where you put me, so long as you do not separate me from Philip."

"She certainly loves my son!" said Mr. Granville to himself. "Yet her ordinary manner is cold and constrained, and she does not seem like a woman whose affections would easily be taken captive. Yet Philip seems to have found the way to her heart. It must be because she has had so much care of him. We are apt to love those whom we benefit."

But though Mr. Granville credited Mrs. Brent with an affection for Philip, he was uneasily conscious that the boy's return had not brought him the satisfaction and happiness he had fondly anticipated.

To begin with, Philip did not look at all as he had supposed his son would look. He did not look like the Granvilles at all. Indeed, he had an unusually countrified aspect, and his conversation was mingled with rustic phrases which shocked his father's taste.

"I suppose it comes of the way in which he has been brought up and the country boys he has associated with," thought Mr. Granville. "Fortunately he is young, and there is time to polish him. As soon as I reach Chicago I will engage a private tutor for him, who shall not only remedy his defects of education, but do what he can to improve my son's manners. I want him to grow up a gentleman."

The next day the three started for Chicago, while Mr. Granville's real son and heir continued to live at a cheap lodging-house in New York.

The star of Jonas was in the ascendant, while poor Philip seemed destined to years of poverty and hard work. Even now, he was threatened by serious misfortune.



CHAPTER XX.

LEFT OUT IN THE COLD.

Of course Phil was utterly ignorant of the audacious attempt to deprive him of his rights and keep him apart from the father who longed once more to meet him. There was nothing before him so far as he knew except to continue the up-hill struggle for a living.

He gave very little thought to the prediction of the fortune-teller whom he had consulted, and didn't dream of any short-cut to fortune.

Do all he could, he found he could not live on his wages.

His board cost him four dollars a week, and washing and lunch two dollars more, thus compelling him to exceed his salary by a dollar each week.

He had, as we know, a reserve fund, on which he could draw, but it was small, and grew constantly smaller. Then, again, his clothes were wearing out, and he saw no way of obtaining money to buy new.

Phil became uneasy, and the question came up to his mind, "Should he write to his step-mother and ask her for a trifling loan?" If the money had been hers, he would not have done so on any condition; but she had had nothing of her own, and all the property in her hands came through Mr. Brent, who, as he knew, was attached to him, even though no tie of blood united them. He certainly meant that Phil should be cared for out of the estate, and at length Phil brought himself to write the following letter:

"NEW YORK, March 10, 18—.

"DEAR MRS. BRENT: I suppose I ought to have written you before, and have no good excuse to offer. I hope you and Jonas are well, and will continue so. Let me tell you how I have succeeded thus far.

"I have been fortunate enough to obtain a place in a large mercantile establishment, and for my services I am paid five dollars a week. This is more than boys generally get in the first place, and I am indebted to the partiality of an old gentleman, the senior member of the firm, whom I had the chance to oblige, for faring so well. Still I find it hard to get along on this sum, though I am as economical as possible. My board and washing cost me six dollars a week, and I have, besides, to buy clothing from time to time. I have nearly spent the extra money I had with me, and do not know how to keep myself looking respectable in the way of clothing. Under the circumstances, I shall have to apply to you for a loan, say of twenty-five dollars. In a year or two I hope to earn enough to be entirely independent. At present I cannot expect it. As my father—Mr. Brent—undoubtedly intended to provide for me, I don't think I need to apologize for making this request. Still I do it reluctantly, for I would prefer to depend entirely upon myself.

"With regards to you and Jonas, I am yours truly, PHILIP BRENT."



Phil put this letter in the post-office, and patiently waited for an answer.

"Mrs. Brent surely cannot refuse me," he said to himself, "since I have almost wholly relieved her of the expense of taking care of me."

Phil felt so sure that money would be sent to him that he began to look round a little among ready-made clothing stores to see at what price he could obtain a suit that would do for every-day use. He found a store in the Bowery where he could secure a suit, which looked as if it would answer, for thirteen dollars. If Mrs. Brent sent him twenty-five, that would leave him twelve for underclothing, and for a reserve fund to meet the weekly deficit which he could not avoid.

Three—four days passed, and no letter came in answer to his.

"It can't be that Mrs. Brent won't at least answer my letter," he thought uneasily. "Even if she didn't send me twenty-five dollars, she couldn't help sending me something."

Still he felt uneasy, in view of the position in which he would find himself in case no letter or remittance should come at all.

It was during this period of anxiety that his heart leaped for joy when on Broadway he saw the familiar form of Reuben Gordon, a young man already mentioned, to whom Phil had sold his gun before leaving Gresham.

"Why, Reuben, how are you?" exclaimed Phil joyfully. "When did you come to town?"

"Phil Brent!" exclaimed Reuben, shaking hands heartily. "I'm thunderin' glad to see you. I was thinkin' of you only five minutes ago, and wonderin' where you hung out."

"But you haven't told me when you came to New York."

"Only this morning! I'm goin' to stay with a cousin of my father's, that lives in Brooklyn, over night."

"I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Brent and Jonas. I was afraid they might be sick, for I wrote four days ago and haven't got any answer yet."

"Where did you write to?"

"To Gresham, of course," answered Phil, in surprise.

"You don't mean to say you hain't heard of their leavin' Gresham?" said Reuben, in evident astonishment.

"Who has left Gresham?"

"Your mother—leastwise, Mrs. Brent—and Jonas. They cleared out three weeks ago, and nobody's heard a word of them since—that is, nobody in the village."

"Don't you know where they've gone?" asked Phil, in amazement.

"No. I was goin' to ask you. I s'posed, of course, they'd write and let you know."

"I didn't even know they had left Gresham."

"Well, that's what I call cur'us. It ain't treatin' you right accordin' to my ideas."

"Is the house shut up?"

"It was till two days ago. Then a brother of Mrs. Brent came and opened it. He has brought his wife and one child with him, and it seems they're goin' to live there. Somebody asked him where his sister and Jonas were, but they didn't get no satisfaction. He said he didn't rightly know himself. He believed they was travelin'; thought they might be in Canada."

Phil looked and felt decidedly sober at this information. He understood, of course, now, why his letter had not been answered. It looked as if he were an outcast from the home that had been his so long. When he came to New York to earn a living he felt that he was doing so voluntarily, and was not obliged to do so. Now he was absolutely thrown upon his own resources, and must either work or starve.

"They've treated you real mean," said Reuben.

"I never did like Mrs. Brent, or Jonas either, for that matter.

"Where are you working?"

Phil answered this question and several others which his honest country friend asked, but his mind was preoccupied, and he answered some of the questions at random. Finally he excused himself on the ground that he must be getting back to the store.

That evening Phil thought seriously of his position. Something must be done, that was very evident. His expenses exceeded his income, and he needed some clothing. There was no chance of getting his wages raised under a year, for he already received more pay than it was customary to give to a boy. What should he do?

Phil decided to lay his position frankly before the only friend he had in the city likely to help him—Mr. Oliver Carter. The old gentleman had been so friendly and kind that he felt that he would not at any rate repulse him. After he had come to this decision he felt better. He determined to lose no time in calling upon Mr. Carter.

After supper he brushed his hair carefully, and made himself look as well as circumstances would admit. Then he bent his steps toward Twelfth Street, where, as the reader will remember, Mr. Carter lived with his niece.

He ascended the steps and rang the bell. It was opened by Hannah, who recognized him, having admitted him on the former occasion of his calling.

"Good-evening," said Phil pleasantly. "Is Mr. Carter at home?"

"No, sir," answered Hannah. "Didn't you know he had gone to Florida?"

"Gone to Florida!" repeated Phil, his heart sinking. "When did he start?"

"He started this afternoon."

"Who's asking after Uncle Oliver?" asked a boy's voice.

Looking behind Hannah, Phil recognized the speaker as Alonzo Pitkin.



CHAPTER XXI.

"THEY MET BY CHANCE."

"Who was asking after Uncle Oliver?" demanded Alonzo superciliously.

"I was," answered Philip.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" said Alonzo, rather disdainfully.

"Yes," answered Phil calmly, though he felt provoked at Alonzo's tone, which was meant to be offensive. "You remember me, don't you?"

"You are the boy that got round Uncle Oliver, and got him to give you a place in pa's store."

"I deny that I got round him," returned Phil warmly. "I had the good luck to do him a favor."

"I suppose you have come after money?" said Alonzo coarsely.

"I sha'n't ask you for any, at any rate," said Phil angrily.

"No; it wouldn't do any good," said Alonzo; "and it's no use asking ma, either. She says you are an adventurer, and have designs on Uncle Oliver because he is rich."

"I shall not ask your mother for any favor," said Phil, provoked. "I am sorry not to meet your uncle."

"I dare say!" sneered Alonzo.

Just then a woman, poorly but neatly dressed, came down stairs. Her face was troubled. Just behind her came Mrs. Pitkin, whose face wore a chilly and proud look.

"Mr. Carter has left the city, and I really don't know when he will return," Phil heard her say. "If he had been at home, it would not have benefited you. He is violently prejudiced against you, and would not have listened to a word you had to say."

"I did not think he would have harbored resentment so long," murmured the poor woman. "He never seemed to me to be a hard man."

Phil gazed at the poorly dressed woman with a surprise which he did not attempt to conceal, for in her he recognized the familiar figure of his landlady. What could she have to do in this house? he asked himself.

"Mrs. Forbush!" he exclaimed.

"Philip!" exclaimed Mrs. Forbush, in a surprise as great as his own, for she had never asked where her young lodger worked, and was not aware that he was in the employ of her cousin's husband and well acquainted with the rich uncle whom she had not seen for years.

"Do you know each other?" demanded Mrs. Pitkin, whose turn it was to be surprised.

"This young gentleman lodges in my house," answered Mrs. Forbush.

"Young gentleman!" repeated Alonzo, with a mocking laugh.

Philip looked at him sternly. He had his share of human nature, and it would have given him satisfaction to thrash the insolent young patrician, as Alonzo chose to consider himself.

"And what do you want here, young man?" asked Mrs. Pitkin in a frosty tone, addressing Phil of course.

"I wished to see Mr. Carter," answered Phil.

"Really, Mr. Carter seems to be very much in request!" sneered Mrs. Pitkin. "No doubt he will be very much disappointed when he hears what he has lost. You will have to go to Florida to see him, I think, however." She added, after a pause: "It will not be well for either of you to call again. Mr. Carter will understand the motive of your calls."

"How cruel you are, Lavinia!" said Mrs. Forbush sadly.

"My name is Mrs. Pitkin!" said that lady frigidly.

"You have not forgotten that we are cousins, surely?"

"I do not care to remember it, Mrs. Forbush. Good-day."

There was no alternative but for Mrs. Forbush to say "good-day" also, and to descend the steps.

Philip joined her in the street.

"Are you really the cousin of Mrs. Pitkin?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Forbush. "I bear the same relationship to Mr. Carter that she does. We were much together as girls, and were both educated at the same expensive schools. I offended my relatives by marrying Mr. Forbush, whose fault was that he was poor, and chiefly, I think, through the efforts of Lavinia Pitkin I was cast out by the family. But where did you meet Uncle Oliver?"

Philip explained the circumstances already known to the reader.

"Mr. Carter seems to me to be a kind-hearted man," he said. "I don't believe he would have cast you off if he had not been influenced by other parties."

"So I think," said Mrs. Forbush. "I will tell you," she continued, after a pause, "what drew me here this afternoon. I am struggling hard to keep my head above water, Mr. Brent, but I find it hard to meet my expenses. I cannot meet my rent due to-morrow within fifteen dollars, and I dared to hope that if I could meet Uncle Oliver face to face and explain matters to him, he would let me have the money."

"I am sure he would," said Phil warmly.

"But he is in Florida, and will probably remain there for a month or two at least," said Mrs. Forbush, sighing. "But even if he were in the city I suppose Lavinia would do all in her power to keep us apart."

"I have no doubt she would, Mrs. Forbush. Though she is your cousin, I dislike her very much."

"I suppose the boy with whom you were talking was her son Alonzo?"

"Yes; he is about the most disagreeable boy I ever met. Both he and his mother seem very much opposed to my having an interview with your uncle."

"Lavinia was always of a jealous and suspicious disposition," said Mrs. Forbush. "I have not seen Alonzo since he was a baby. He is two years older than my Julia. He was born before I estranged my relatives by marrying a poor man."

"What are you going to do, Mrs. Forbush, about the rent?" asked Phil, in a tone of sympathy.

"I don't know. I shall try to get the landlord to wait, but I don't know how he will feel about it."

"I wish I had plenty of money. I would gladly lend you all you need."

"I am sure you would, Philip," said Mrs. Forbush. "The offer does me good, though it is not accompanied by the ability to do what your good heart dictates. I feel that I am not without friends."

"I am a very poor one," said Phil. "The fact is, I am in trouble myself. My income is only five dollars a week, and my expenses are beyond that. I don't know how I am going to keep up."

"You may stay with me for three dollars a week, if you cannot pay four," said Mrs. Forbush, forgetting her own troubles in her sympathy with our hero.

"No, Mrs. Forbush, you can't afford it. You need money as much as I do, and perhaps more; for you have more than yourself to support."

"Yes, poor Julia!" sighed the mother. "She is born to a heritage of poverty. Heaven only knows how we are going to get along."

"God will provide for us, Mrs. Forbush," said Philip. "I don't know how it is, but in spite of my troubles I feel cheerful. I have a confidence that things will come out well, though I cannot possibly imagine how."

"You are young, and youth is more inclined to be hopeful than maturer years. However, I do not wish to dampen your cheerfulness. Keep it, and let it comfort you."

If Phil could have heard the conversation that took place between Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo after their departure, he might have felt less hopeful.

"It is dreadfully annoying that that woman should turn up after all these years!" said Mrs. Pitkin, in a tone of disgust.

"Is she really your cousin, ma?" asked Alonzo.

"Yes, but she disgraced herself by a low marriage, and was cast off."

"That disposes of her, then?"

"I don't know. If she could meet Uncle Oliver, I am afraid she would worm herself into his confidence and get him to do something for her. Then it is unfortunate that she and that boy have fallen in with each other. She may get him to speak to Uncle Oliver in her behalf."

"Isn't he working for pa?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you get pa to discharge him while Uncle Oliver is away?"

"Well thought of, Alonzo! I will speak to your father this very evening."



CHAPTER XXII.

PHIL IS "BOUNCED."

Saturday, as is usual in such establishments, was pay-day at the store of Phil's employers. The week's wages were put up in small envelopes and handed to the various clerks.

When Phil went up to the cashier to get his money he put it quietly into his vest-pocket.

Daniel Dickson, the cashier, observing this, said:

"Brent, you had better open your envelope."

Rather surprised, Phil nevertheless did as requested.

In the envelope, besides the five-dollar bill representing his week's salary, he found a small slip of paper, on which was written these ominous words:

"Your services will not be required after this week." Appended to this notice was the name of the firm.

Phil turned pale, for to him, embarrassed as he was, the loss of his place was a very serious matter.

"What does this mean, Mr. Dickson?" he asked quickly.

"I can't inform you," answered the cashier, smiling unpleasantly, for he was a selfish man who sympathized with no one, and cared for no one as long as he himself remained prosperous.

"Who handed you this paper?" asked Phil.

"The boss."

"Mr. Pitkin?"

"Of course."

Mr. Pitkin was still in his little office, and Phil made his way directly to him.

"May I speak to you, sir?" asked our hero.

"Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry," answered Pitkin, in a very forbidding tone.

"Why am I discharged, sir?"

"I can't go into details. We don't need you any longer."

"Are you not satisfied with me?"

"No!" said Pitkin brusquely.

"In what respect have I failed to satisfy you, sir?"

"Don't put on any airs, boy!" returned Pitkin. "We don't want you, that's all."

"You might have given me a little notice," said Phil indignantly.

"We made no stipulation of that kind, I believe."

"It would only be fair, sir."

"No impertinence, young man! I won't stand it! I don't need any instructions as to the manner of conducting my business."

Phil by this time perceived that his discharge was decided upon without any reference to the way in which he had performed his duties, and that any discussion or remonstrance would be unavailing.

"I see, sir, that you have no regard for justice, and will leave you," he said.

"You'd better, and without delay!" said Pitkin irascibly.

Phil emerged upon the street with a sinking heart. His available funds consisted only of the money he had just received and seventy-five cents in change, and what he was to do he did not know. He walked home with slow steps, looking sad in spite of his usually hopeful temperament.

When he entered the house he met Mrs. Forbush in the hall. She at once noticed his gravity.

"Have you had any bad luck, Philip?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Phil. "I have lost my situation."

"Indeed!" returned the landlady, with quick sympathy. "Have you had any difficulty with your employer?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Did he assign any reason for your discharge?"

"No; I asked him for an explanation, but he merely said I was not wanted any longer."

"Isn't there any chance of his taking you back?"

"I am sure there is not."

"Don't be discouraged, Philip. A smart boy like you won't be long out of a place. Meanwhile you are welcome to stay here as long as I have a roof to cover me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Forbush," said Phil warmly, "you are a true friend. You are in trouble yourself, yet you stand by me!"

"I have had a stroke of good luck to-day," said Mrs. Forbush cheerfully. "A former boarder, whom I allowed to remain here for five or six weeks when he was out of employment, has sent me thirty dollars in payment of his bill, from Boston, where he found a position. So I shall be able to pay my rent and have something over. I have been lucky, and so may you."

Phil was cheered by the ready sympathy of his landlady, and began to take a more cheerful view of matters.

"I will go out bright and early on Monday and see if I can't find another place," he said. "Perhaps it may be all for the best."

Yet on the day succeeding he had some sober hours. How differently he had been situated only three months before. Then he had a home and relatives. Now he was practically alone in the world, with no home in which he could claim a share, and he did not even know where his step-mother and Jonas were. Sunday forenoon he attended church, and while he sat within its sacred precincts his mind was tranquilized, and his faith and cheerfulness increased.

On Monday he bought the Herald, and made a tour of inquiry wherever he saw that a boy was wanted. But in each place he was asked if he could produce a recommendation from his last employer. He decided to go back to his old place and ask for one, though he was very reluctant to ask a favor of any kind from a man who had treated him so shabbily as Mr. Pitkin. It seemed necessary, however, and he crushed down his pride and made his way to Mr. Pitkin's private office.

"Mr. Pitkin!" he said.

"You here!" exclaimed Pitkin, scowling. "You needn't ask to be taken back. It's no use."

"I don't ask it," answered Phil.

"Then what are you here for?"

"I would like a letter of recommendation, that I may obtain another place."

"Well, well!" said Pitkin, wagging his head. "If that isn't impudence."

"What is impudence?" asked Phil. "I did as well as I could, and that I am ready to do for another employer. But all ask me for a letter from you."

"You won't get any!" said Pitkin abruptly.

"Where is your home?"

"I have none except in this city."

"Where did you come from?"

"From the country."

"Then I advise you to go back there. You may do for the country. You are out of place in the city."

Poor Phil! Things did indeed look dark for him. Without a letter of recommendation from Mr. Pitkin it would be almost impossible for him to secure another place, and how could he maintain himself in the city? He didn't wish to sell papers or black boots, and those were about the only paths now open to him.

"I am having a rough time!" he thought, "but I will try not to get discouraged."

He turned upon his heel and walked out of the store.

As he passed the counter where Wilbur was standing, the young man said:

"I am awfully sorry, Philip. It's a shame! If I wasn't broke I'd offer to lend you a fiver."

"Thank you all the same for your kind offer, Wilbur," said Phil.

"Come round and see me."

"So I will—soon."

He left the store and wandered aimlessly about the streets.

Four days later, sick with hope deferred, he made his way down to the wharf of the Charleston and Savannah boats, with a vague idea that he might get a job of carrying baggage, for he felt that he must not let his pride interfere with doing anything by which he could earn an honest penny.

It so happened that the Charleston boat was just in, and the passengers were just landing.

Phil stood on the pier and gazed listlessly at them as they disembarked.

All at once he started in surprise, and his heart beat joyfully.

There, just descending the gang-plank, was his tried friend, Mr. Oliver Carter, whom he supposed over a thousand miles away in Florida.

"Mr. Carter!" exclaimed Phil, dashing forward.

"Philip!" exclaimed the old gentleman, much surprised. "How came you here? Did Mr. Pitkin send you?"



CHAPTER XXIII.

AN EXPLANATION.

It would be hard to tell which of the two was the more surprised at the meeting, Philip or Mr. Carter.

"I don't understand how Mr. Pitkin came to hear of my return. I didn't telegraph," said the old gentleman.

"I don't think he knows anything about it," said Phil.

"Didn't he send you to the pier?"

"No, sir."

"Then how is it that you are not in the store at this time?" asked Mr. Carter, puzzled.

"Because I am no longer in Mr. Pitkin's employ. I was discharged last Saturday."

"Discharged! What for?"

"Mr. Pitkin gave no reason. He said my services were no longer required. He spoke roughly to me, and has since declined to give me a recommendation, though I told him that without it I should be unable to secure employment elsewhere."

Mr. Carter frowned. He was evidently annoyed and indignant.

"This must be inquired into," he said. "Philip, call a carriage, and I will at once go to the Astor House and take a room. I had intended to go at once to Mr. Pitkin's, but I shall not do so until I have had an explanation of this outrageous piece of business."

Phil was rejoiced to hear this, for he was at the end of his resources, and the outlook for him was decidedly gloomy. He had about made up his mind to sink his pride and go into business as a newsboy the next day, but the very unexpected arrival of Mr. Carter put quite a new face on matters.

He called a carriage, and both he and Mr. Carter entered it.

"How do you happen to be back so soon, sir?" asked Phil, when they were seated. "I thought you were going to Florida for a couple of months."

"I started with that intention, but on reaching Charleston I changed my mind. I expected to find some friends at St. Augustine, but I learned that they were already returning to the North, and I felt that I should be lonely and decided to return. I am very glad I did, now. Did you receive my letter?"

"Your letter?" queried Philip, looking at Mr. Carter in surprise.

"Certainly. I gave Alonzo a letter for you, which I had directed to your boarding-house, and requested him to mail it. It contained a ten-dollar bill."

"I never received any such letter, sir. It would have been of great service to me—the money, I mean; for I have found it hard to live on five dollars a week. Now I have not even that."

"Is it possible that Alonzo could have suppressed the letter?" said Mr. Carter to himself.

"At any rate I never received it."

"Here is something else to inquire into," said Mr. Carter. "If Alonzo has tampered with my letter, perhaps appropriated the money, it will be the worse for him."

"I hardly think he would do that, sir; though I don't like him."

"You are generous; but I know the boy better than you do. He is fond of money, not for the sake of spending it, but for the sake of hoarding it. Tell me, then, how did you learn that I had gone to Florida?"

"I learned it at the house in Twelfth Street."

"Then you called there?"

"Yes, sir; I called to see you. I found it hard to get along on my salary, and I did not want Mrs. Forbush to lose by me, so I——"

"Mrs. Forbush?" repeated the old gentleman quickly. "That name sounds familiar to me."

"Mrs. Forbush is your niece," said Phil, a hope rising in his heart that he might be able to do his kind landlady a good turn.

"Did she tell you that?"

"No, sir; that is, I was ignorant of it until I met her just as I was going away from Mrs. Pitkin's."

"Did she call there, too—to see me?" asked the old gentleman.

"Yes, sir; but she got a very cold reception. Mrs. Pitkin was very rude to her, and said that you were so much prejudiced against her that she had better not call again."

"That's like her cold selfishness. I understand her motives very well. I had no idea that Mrs. Forbush was in the city. Is she—poor?"

"Yes, sir; she is having a hard struggle to maintain herself and her daughter."

"And you board at her house?"

"Yes, sir."

"How strangely things come about! She is as nearly related to me as Lavinia—Mrs. Pitkin."

"She told me so."

"She married against the wishes of her family, but I can see now that we were all unreasonably prejudiced against her. Lavinia, however, trumped up stories against her husband, which I am now led to believe were quite destitute of foundation, and did all she could to keep alive the feud. I feel now that I was very foolish to lend myself to her selfish ends. Of course her object was to get my whole fortune for herself and her boy."

Phil had no doubt of this, but he did not like to say so, for it would seem that he, too, was influenced by selfish motives.

"Then you are not so much prejudiced against Mrs. Forbush as she was told?" he allowed himself to say.

"No, no!" said Mr. Carter earnestly. "Poor Rebecca! She has a much better nature and disposition than Mrs. Pitkin. And you say she is poor?"

"She had great difficulty in paying her last month's rent," said Philip.

"Where does she live?"

Phil told him.

"What sort of a house is it?"

"It isn't a brown-stone front," answered Phil, smiling. "It is a poor, cheap house; but it is as good as she can afford to hire."

"And you like her?"

"Very much, Mr. Carter. She has been very kind to me, and though she finds it so hard to get along, she has told me she will keep me as long as she has a roof over her head, though just now I cannot pay my board, because my income is gone."

"It will come back again, Philip," said the old gentleman.

Phil understood by this that he would be restored to his place in Mr. Pitkin's establishment. This did not yield him unalloyed satisfaction, for he was sure that it would be made unpleasant for him by Mr. Pitkin. Still he would accept it, and meet disagreeable things as well as he could.

By this time they had reached the Astor House.

Phil jumped out first, and assisted Mr. Carter to descend.

He took Mr. Carter's hand-bag, and followed him into the hotel.

Mr. Carter entered his name in the register.

"What is your name?" he asked—"Philip Brent?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will enter your name, too."

"Am I to stay here?" asked Phil, in surprise.

"Yes; I shall need a confidential clerk, and for the present you will fill that position. I will take two adjoining rooms—one for you."

Phil listened in surprise.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

Mr. Carter gave orders to have his trunk sent for from the steamer, and took possession of the room. Philip's room was smaller, but considerably more luxurious than the one he occupied at the house of Mrs. Forbush.

"Have you any money, Philip?" asked the old gentleman.

"I have twenty-five cents," answered Philip.

"That isn't a very large sum," said Mr. Carter, smiling. "Here, let me replenish your pocketbook."

He drew four five-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to Phil.

"How can I thank you, sir?" asked Phil gratefully.

"Wait till you have more to thank me for. Let me tell you this, that in trying to harm you, Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin have done you a great service."

"I should like to see Mrs. Forbush this evening, if you can spare me, to let her know that she needn't be anxious about me."

"By all means. You can go."

"Am I at liberty to mention that I have seen you, sir?"

"Yes. Tell her that I will call to-morrow. And you may take her this."

Mr. Carter drew a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and passed it to Phil.

"Get it changed at the office as you go out," he said. "Come back as soon as you can."

With a joyful heart Phil jumped on a Fourth Avenue car in front of the hotel, and started on his way up town.



CHAPTER XXIV.

RAISING THE RENT.

Leaving Phil, we will precede him to the house of Mrs. Forbush.

She had managed to pay the rent due, but she was not out of trouble. The time had come when it was necessary to decide whether she would retain the house for the following year. In New York, as many of my young readers may know, the first of May is moving-day, and leases generally begin at that date. Engagements are made generally by or before March 1st.

Mr. Stone, the landlord, called upon the widow to ascertain whether she proposed to remain in the house.

"I suppose I may as well do so," said Mrs. Forbush.

She had had difficulty in making her monthly payments, but to move would involve expense, and it might be some time before she could secure boarders in a new location.

"You can't do better," said the landlord. "At fifty dollars a month this is a very cheap house."

"You mean forty-five? Mr. Stone?" said Mrs. Forbush.

"No, I don't," said the landlord.

"But that is what I have been paying this last year."

"That is true, but I ought to get fifty dollars, and if you won't pay it somebody else will."

"Mr. Stone," said the widow, in a troubled voice, "I hope you will be considerate. It has been as much as I could do to get together forty-five dollars each month to pay you. Indeed, I can pay no more."

"Pardon me for saying that that is no affair of mine," said the landlord brusquely. "If you can't pay the rent, by all means move into a smaller house. If you stay here you must be prepared to pay fifty dollars a month."

"I don't see how I can," answered the widow in dejection.

"I'll give you three days to consider it," said the landlord indifferently. "You'll make a mistake if you give the house up. However, that is your affair."

The landlord left the house, and Mrs. Forbush sat down depressed.

"Julia," she said to her daughter, "I wish you were old enough to advise me. I dislike to move, but I don't dare to engage to pay such a rent. Fifty dollars a month will amount to——"

"Six hundred dollars a year!" said Julia, who was good at figures.

"And that seems a great sum to us."

"It would be little enough to Mrs. Pitkin," said Julia, who felt that lady's prosperity unjust, while her poor, patient mother had to struggle so hard for a scanty livelihood.

"Oh, yes; Lavinia is rolling in wealth," sighed Mrs. Forbush. "I can't understand how Uncle Oliver can bestow his favors on so selfish a woman."

"Why don't you ask Philip's advice about keeping the house?" said Julia.

It must be explained that Philip and Julia were already excellent friends, and it may be said that each was mutually attracted by the other.

"Poor Philip has his own troubles," said Mrs. Forbush. "He has lost his place through the malice and jealousy of Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin, for I am sure that Lavinia is the cause of his dismissal, and I don't know when he will be able to get another."

"You won't send him away, mother, if he can't pay his board?"

"No," answered her mother warmly. "Philip is welcome to stay with us as long as we have a roof over our heads, whether he can pay his board or not."

This answer seemed very satisfactory to Julia, who rose impulsively and kissed her mother.

"That's a good mother," she said. "It would be a pity to send poor Philip into the street."

"You seem to like Philip," said Mrs. Forbush, smiling faintly.

"Yes, mother. You know I haven't any brother, and Phil seems just like a brother to me."

Just then the door opened, and Philip himself entered the room.

Generally he came home looking depressed, after a long and ineffectual search for employment. Now he was fairly radiant with joy.

"Phil, you've got a place; I know you have!" exclaimed Julia, noticing his glad expression. "Where is it? Is it a good one?"

"Have you really got a place, Philip?" asked Mrs. Forbush.

"Yes, for the present."

"Do you think you shall like your employer?"

"He is certainly treating me very well," said Phil, smiling. "He has paid me twenty dollars in advance."

"Then the age of wonders has not passed," said the widow. "Of course I believe you, Philip, but it seems extraordinary."

"There is something more extraordinary to come," said Phil. "He has sent you some money, too."

"Me!" exclaimed Mrs. Forbush, in great surprise.

"What can he know about me?"

"I told him about you."

"But we are strangers."

"He used to know you, and still feels an interest in you, Mrs. Forbush."

"Who can it be?" said the widow, looking bewildered.

"I don't want to keep you in suspense any longer, so I may as well say that it is your Uncle Oliver."

"Uncle Oliver! Why, he is in Florida."

"No; he came home from Charleston. I happened to be at the pier—I went down to see if I could get a job at smashing baggage—when I saw him walking down the gang-plank."

"Has he gone to his old quarters at Mr. Pitkin's?"

"No; what I told about the way they treated you and me made him angry, and he drove to the Astor House. I have a room there, too, and am to act as his private secretary."

"So that is your new situation, Phil?" said Julia.

"Yes, and it is a good one."

"And he really feels kindly to me?" said Mrs. Forbush hopefully.

"He sends you this and will call to-morrow," said Phil. "Actions speak louder than words. There are a hundred dollars in this roll of bills."

"He sent all this to me?" she said.

"Yes, and of his own accord. It was no suggestion of mine.

"Julia," said Mrs. Forbush, turning to her daughter, "I believe God has heard my prayer, and that better days are in store for all of us."

"Philip included," added Phil, smiling.

"Yes. I want you to share in our good fortune."

"Mother, you had better consult Phil about keeping the house."

"Oh, yes."

Mrs. Forbush thereupon told Philip of the landlord's visit and his proposal to ask a higher rent.

"I hesitated about taking the house," she said; "but with this handsome gift from Uncle Oliver, I don't know but I may venture. What do you think?"

"I think, Mrs. Forbush, you had better not decide till you have seen your uncle. He may have some plan of his own for you. At any rate, you had better consult him. He will call to-morrow. And now, let me pay you for my week's board."

"No, Philip. I shall not want it with all this money, which I should not have received but for you."

"A debt is a debt, Mrs. Forbush, and I prefer to pay it. I shall not be here to supper, as Mr. Carter is expecting me back to the Astor House. I shall probably come with him when he calls upon you to-morrow."

On his return to the hotel, as he was walking on Broadway, Phil came face to face with Alonzo Pitkin.

"I think I'll ask him about that letter his uncle gave him to post to me," thought Phil, and he waited until Alonzo was close at hand.



CHAPTER XXV.

ALONZO IS PUZZLED.

Alonzo, who had his share of curiosity, as soon as he saw Phil's approach, determined to speak to him, and ascertain what were his plans and what he was doing. With the petty malice which he inherited from his mother, he hoped that Phil had been unable to find a place and was in distress.

"It would serve him right," said Alonzo to himself, "for trying to get into Uncle Oliver's good graces. I s'pose he would like to cut me out, but he'll find that he can't fight against ma and me."

"Oh, it's you, is it?" was Alonzo's salutation when they met.

"Yes," answered Phil.

"Pa bounced you, didn't he?" continued Alonzo complacently.

"Yes," answered Phil. "That is, he discharged me. I suppose that is what you meant."

"You've got it right the first time," said Alonzo.

"Have you got another place?"

"Do you ask because you feel interested in me?" asked Phil.

"Well, not particularly," answered Alonzo appearing quite amused by the suggestion.

"Then you ask out of curiosity?"

"S'pose I do?"

"I don't mind telling you that I have found a place, then."

"What sort of a place?" asked Alonzo, disappointed.

"There is no need of going into particulars."

"No. I s'pose not," sneered Alonzo. "You're probably selling papers or blacking boots."

"You are mistaken. I have a much better situation than I had with your father."

Alonzo's lower jaw fell. He was very sorry to hear it.

"Didn't your employer ask for a recommendation?"

"He didn't seem to think one necessary!" replied Phil.

"If he'd known pa had sacked you, he wouldn't have wanted you, I guess."

"He knows it. Have you got through asking questions, Alonzo?"

"You are too familiar. You can call me Mr. Pitkin."

Phil laughed at Alonzo's assumption of dignity, but made no comment upon it.

"I want to ask you what you did with that letter Mr. Carter gave you to post for me?" asked Phil.

Alonzo was indeed surprised, not to say dismayed. The truth was that, judging from the "feel" of the letter, it contained money, and he had opened it and appropriated the money to his own use. Moreover he had the bank-note in his pocket at that very moment, not having any wish to spend, but rather to hoard it.

"That's a queer question," he stammered. "What letter do you refer to?"

"A letter Mr. Carter gave you to mail to me."

"If he gave me any such letter I mailed it," answered Alonzo, scarcely knowing what to say.

"I didn't receive it."

"How do you know he gave me any letter?" demanded Alonzo, puzzled.

"I don't care to tell. I only know that there was such a letter handed to you. Do you know what was in it?"

"Writing, I s'pose," said Alonzo flippantly.

"Yes, there was, but there was also a ten-dollar bill. I didn't receive the letter," and Phil fixed his eyes searchingly upon the face of Alonzo.

"That's a pretty story!" said Alonzo. "I don't believe Uncle Oliver would be such a fool as to send you ten dollars. If he did, you got it, and now want to get as much more, pretending you haven't received it."

"You are mistaken," said Phil quietly.

"If you didn't get the letter, how do you know any was written, and that there was anything in it?" asked Alonzo triumphantly, feeling that the question was a crusher.

"I don't care to tell you how I know it. Do you deny it?"

"I don't remember whether Uncle Oliver gave me any letter or not."

"Will you be kind enough to give me his address in Florida, so that I may write to him and find out?"

"No, I won't," said Alonzo angrily, "and I think you are very cheeky to ask such a thing. Ma was right when she said that you were the most impudent boy she ever came across."

"That's enough, Alonzo," said Phil quietly. "I've found out all I wanted to."

"What have you found out?" asked Alonzo, his tone betraying some apprehension.

"Never mind. I think I know what became of that letter."

"Do you mean to say I opened it and took out the money?" demanded Alonzo, reddening.

"I wouldn't charge anybody with such a mean act, unless I felt satisfied of it."

"You'd better not!" said Alonzo, in a bullying tone. "If I find out who you're working for, I'll let him know that pa bounced you."

"Just as you please! I don't think that any words of yours will injure me with the gentleman I have the good fortune to work for."

"Don't you be too sure! If you think he wouldn't mind a boy, I'll refer him to pa and ma. They'll give you a good setting out."

"I don't doubt it," said Phil indifferently, and turned to go away.

He was called back by Alonzo, who had not quite satisfied his curiosity.

"Say, are you boarding with that woman who came to see ma the same day you were at the house?" he asked.

"No; I have left her."

Alonzo looked well pleased. He knew that his mother felt rather uneasy at the two being together, dreading lest they should make a concerted attempt to ingratiate themselves with her rich uncle.

"Ma says she behaved very badly," Alonzo could not help adding.

"Mrs. Forbush is an excellent Lady," said Phil warmly, for he could not hear one of his friends spoken against.

"Lady! She's as poor as poverty," sneered Alonzo.

"She is none the worse for that."

"Uncle Oliver can't bear her!"

"Indeed!" said Phil; pausing to see what else Alonzo would say.

"Ma says she disgraced herself, and all her relations gave her up. When you see her tell her she had better not come sneaking round the house again."

"If you will write a letter to that effect, I will see that she gets it," said Phil. "That letter won't miscarry."

"I don't care to take any notice of her," said Alonzo loftily.

"You are very kind to have wasted so much notice upon me," said Phil, amused.

Alonzo did not see fit to answer this, but walked away with his head in the air. He was, however, not quite easy in mind.

"How in the world," he asked himself, "could that boy have found out that Uncle Oliver gave me a letter to post? If he should learn that I opened it and took the money, there'd be a big fuss. I guess I'd better not meet him again. If I see him any day I'll go in a different direction. He's so artful he may get me into trouble."

It is needless to say that neither Mr. or Mrs. Pitkin knew of Alonzo's tampering with the letter. Much as they would have been opposed to Phil's receiving such a letter, they would have been too wise to sanction such a bold step.

"Well," said Mr. Carter, when Phil returned, "did you see Rebecca—Mrs. Forbush?"

"Yes, sir, and handed her the money. She was overjoyed; not so much at receiving so generous a sum as at learning that you were reconciled to her."

"Poor girl!" said the old man, forgetting that she was now a worn woman. "I am afraid that she must have suffered much."

"She has met with many hardships, sir, but she won't mind them now."

"If I live her future shall be brighter than her past. I will call to-morrow. You, Philip, shall go with me."

"I should like to do so, sir. By the way, I met Alonzo on Broadway."

He detailed the conversation that had taken place between them.

"I am afraid he took the money," said Mr. Carter. "I am sorry any relative of mine should have acted in that way. Let him keep it. Any benefit he may derive from it will prove to have been dearly purchased."



CHAPTER XXVI.

A WONDERFUL CHANGE.

"You may order a carriage, Philip," said Mr. Carter the next morning. "Pick out a handsome one with seats for four."

"Yes, sir."

In five minutes the carriage was at the door.

"Now, Philip, we will go to see my long-neglected niece, Mrs. Forbush. Give the driver the necessary directions."

"Mrs. Forbush does not have many carriage-callers," said Philip, smiling.

"Perhaps she will have more hereafter," said Mr. Carter, "I ought not so long to have lost sight of her. I always liked Rebecca better than Lavinia, yet I let the latter prejudice me against her cousin, who is in disposition, education and sincerity her superior. You see, Philip, there are old fools in the world as well as young ones."

"It is never too late to mend, Mr. Carter," said Phil, smiling.

"That's very true, even if it is a young philosopher who says it."

"I don't claim any originality for it, Mr. Carter."

"By the way, Philip, I have noticed that you always express yourself very correctly. Your education must be good."

"Yes, sir, thanks to my father, or the man whom I always regarded as my father. I am a fair Latin scholar, and know something of Greek."

"Were you preparing for college?" asked Mr. Carter, with interest.

"Yes, sir."

"Would you like to go?"

"I should have gone had father lived, but my step-mother said it was foolishness and would be money thrown away."

"Perhaps she preferred to incur that expense for her own son?" suggested the old gentleman.

"Jonas wouldn't consent to that. He detests study, and would decidedly object to going to college."

"By the way, you haven't heard from them lately?"

"Only that they have left our old home and gone no one knows where."

"That is strange."

By this time they had reached the humble dwelling occupied by Mrs. Forbush.

"And so this is where Rebecca lives?" said Mr. Carter.

"Yes, sir. It is not quite so nice as Mrs. Pitkin's."

"No," returned Mr. Carter thoughtfully.

Philip rang the bell, and the two were admitted into the humble parlor. They had not long to wait for Mrs. Forbush, who, with an agitation which she could not overcome, entered the presence of her long estranged and wealthy uncle.

"Rebecca!" exclaimed the old gentleman, rising, and showing some emotion as he saw the changes which fifteen years had made in the niece whom he had last met as a girl.

"Uncle Oliver! how kind you are to visit me!" cried Mrs. Forbush, the tears starting from her eyes.

"Kind! Nonsense! I have been very unkind to neglect you so long. But it wasn't all my fault. There were others who did all they could to keep us apart. You have lost your husband?"

"Yes, uncle. He was poor, but he was one of the kindest and best of men, and made me happy."

"I begin to think I have been an old fool, Rebecca. Philip thinks so, too."

"Oh, Mr. Carter!" exclaimed our hero.

"Yes, you do, Philip," asserted Mr. Carter, "and you are quite right. However, as you told me, it is never too late to mend."

"Mrs. Forbush will think I take strange liberties with you, sir."

"I don't object to good advice, even from a boy. But who is this?"

Julia had just entered the room. She was a bright, attractive girl, but held back bashfully until her mother said:

"Julia, this is Uncle Oliver Carter. You have heard me speak of him."

"Yes, mamma."

"And scold about him, I dare say. Well, Julia, come and give your old uncle a kiss."

Julia blushed, but obeyed her uncle's request.

"I should know she was your child, Rebecca. She looks as you did at her age. Now tell me, have you any engagement this morning, you two?"

"No, Uncle Oliver."

"Then I will find one for you. I have a carriage at the door. You will please put on your bonnets. We are going shopping."

"Shopping?"

"Yes, I am going to fit out both of you in a manner more befitting relatives of mine. The fact is, Niece Rebecca, you are actually shabby."

"I know it, uncle, but there has been so many ways of spending money that I have had to neglect my dress.

"Very likely. I understand. Things are different now. Now, don't be over an hour getting ready!"

"We are not fashionable, uncle," said Mrs. Forbush, "and we haven't any change to make."

They entered the carriage, and drove to a large and fashionable store, where everything necessary to a lady's toilet, including dresses quite complete, could be obtained. Mrs. Forbush was in favor of selecting very plain articles, but her uncle overruled her, and pointed out costumes much more costly.

"But, uncle," objected Mrs. Forbush, "these things won't at all correspond with our plain home and mode of living. Think of a boarding-house keeper arrayed like a fine lady."

"You are going to give up taking boarders—that is, you will have none but Philip and myself."

"Will you really live with us, uncle? But the house is too poor."

"Of course it is, but you are going to move. I will speak further on this point when you are through your purchases."

At length the shopping was over, and they re-entered the carriage.

"Drive to No.— Madison Avenue," said Mr. Carter to the driver.

"Uncle Oliver, you have given the wrong direction."

"No, Rebecca, I know what I am about."

"Do you live on Madison Avenue?" asked Mrs. Forbush.

"I am going to and so are you. You must know that I own a furnished house on Madison Avenue. The late occupants sailed for Europe last week, and I was looking out for a tenant when I found you. You will move there to-morrow, and act as house keeper, taking care of Philip and myself. I hope Julia and you will like it as well as your present home."

"How can I thank you for all your kindness, Uncle Oliver?" said Mrs. Forbush, with joyful tears. "It will be living once more. It will be such a rest from the hard struggle I have had of late years."

"You can repay me by humoring all my whims," said Uncle Oliver, smiling. "You will find me very tyrannical. The least infraction of my rules will lead me to send you all packing."

"Am I to be treated in the same way, Mr. Carter?" asked Philip.

"Exactly."

"Then, if you discharge me, I will fly for refuge to Mr. Pitkin."

"That will be 'out of the frying-pan into the fire' with a vengeance."

By this time they had reached the house. It was an elegant brown-stone front, and proved, on entrance, to be furnished in the most complete and elegant manner. Mr. Carter selected the second floor for his own use; a good-sized room on the third was assigned to Philip, and Mrs. Forbush was told to select such rooms for Julia and herself as she desired.

"This is much finer than Mrs. Pitkin's house," said Philip.

"Yes, it is."

"She will be jealous when she hears of it."

"No doubt. That is precisely what I desire. It will be a fitting punishment for her treatment of her own cousin."

It was arranged that on the morrow Mrs. Forbush and Julia should close their small house, leaving directions to sell the humble furniture at auction, while Mr. Carter and Philip would come up from the Astor House.

"What will the Pitkins say when they hear of it?" thought Philip. "I am afraid they will feel bad."



CHAPTER XXVII.

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE.

While these important changes were occurring in the lives of Philip Brent and the poor cousin, Mrs. Pitkin remained in blissful ignorance of what was going on. Alonzo had told her of his encounter with Phil on Broadway and the intelligence our hero gave him of his securing a place.

"You may rest assured the boy was lying, Lonny," said Mrs. Pitkin. "Boys don't get places so easily, especially when they can't give a recommendation from their last employer.

"That's just what I thought, ma," said Alonzo.

"Still Phil looked in good spirits, and he was as saucy as ever."

"I can believe the last very well, Lonny. The boy is naturally impertinent. They were probably put on to deceive you."

"But how does he get money to pay his way?" said Alonzo puzzled.

"As to that, he is probably selling papers or blacking boots in the lower part of the city. He could make enough to live on, and of course he wouldn't let you know what he was doing."

"I hope you're right, ma. I'd give ever so much to catch him blacking boots in City Hall Park, or anywhere else; I'd give him a job. Wouldn't he feel mortified to be caught?"

"No doubt he would."

"I've a great mind to go down town to-morrow and look about for him."

"Very well, Lonny. You may to if you want to."

Alonzo did go; but he looked in vain for Phil. The latter was employed in doing some writing and attending to some accounts for Mr. Carter, who had by this time found that his protege was thoroughly well qualified for such work.

So nearly a week passed. It so chanced that though Uncle Oliver had now been in New York a considerable time, not one of the Pitkins had met him or had reason to suspect that he was nearer than Florida.

One day, however, among Mrs. Pitkin's callers was Mrs. Vangriff, a fashionable acquaintance.

"Mr. Oliver Carter is your uncle, I believe?" said the visitor.

"Yes."

"I met him on Broadway the other day. He was looking very well."

"It must have been a fortnight since, then. Uncle Oliver is in Florida."

"In Florida!" repeated Mrs. Vangriff, in surprise.

"When did he go?"

"When was it, Lonny?" asked Mrs. Pitkin, appealing to her son.

"It will be two weeks next Thursday."

"There must be some mistake," said the visitor.

"I saw Mr. Carter on Broadway, near Twentieth Street, day before yesterday."

"Quite a mistake, I assure you, Mrs. Vangriff," said Mrs. Pitkin, smiling. "It was some other person. You were deceived by a fancied resemblance."

"It is you who are wrong, Mrs. Pitkin," said Mrs. Vangriff, positively. "I am somewhat acquainted with Mr. Carter, and I stopped to speak with him."

"Are you sure of this?" asked Mrs. Pitkin, looking startled.

"Certainly, I am sure of it."

"Did you call him by name?"

"Certainly; and even inquired after you. He answered that he believed you were well. I thought he was living with you?"

"So he was," answered Mrs. Pitkin coolly as possible, considering the startling nature of the information she had received. "Probably Uncle Oliver returned sooner than he anticipated, and was merely passing through the city. He has important business interests at the West."

"I don't think he was merely passing through the city, for a friend of mine saw him at the Fifth Avenue Theater last evening."

Mrs. Pitkin actually turned as pale as her sallow complexion would admit.

"I am rather surprised to hear this, I admit," she said. "Was he alone, do you know?"

"No; he had a lady and a boy with him."

"Is it possible that Uncle Oliver has been married to some designing widow?" Mrs. Pitkin asked herself. "It is positively terrible!"

She did not dare to betray her agitation before Mrs. Vangriff, and sat on thorns till that lady saw fit to take leave. Then she turned to Alonzo and said, in a hollow voice:

"Lonny, you heard what that woman said?"

"You bet!"

"Do you think Uncle Oliver has gone and got married again?" she asked, in a hollow voice.

"I shouldn't wonder a mite, ma," was the not consolitary reply.

"If so, what will become of us? My poor boy, I looked upon you and myself as likely to receive all of Uncle Oliver's handsome property. As it is——" and she almost broke down.

"Perhaps he's only engaged?" suggested Alonzo.

"To be sure!" said his mother, brightening up.

"If so, the affair may yet be broken off. Oh, Lonny, I never thought your uncle was so artful. His trip to Florida was only a trick to put us off the scent."

"What are you going to do about it, ma?"

"I must find out as soon as possible where Uncle Oliver is staying. Then I will see him, and try to cure him of his infatuation. He is evidently trying to keep us in the dark, or he would have come back to his rooms."

"How are you going to find out, ma?"

"I don't know. That's what puzzles me."

"S'pose you hire a detective?"

"I wouldn't dare to. Your uncle would be angry when he found it out."

"Do you s'pose Phil knows anything about it?" suggested Alonzo.

"I don't know; it is hardly probable. Do you know where he lives?"

"With the woman who called here and said she was your cousin."

"Yes, I remember, Lonny. I will order the carriage, and we will go there. But you must be very careful not to let them know Uncle Oliver is in New York. I don't wish them to meet him."

"All right! I ain't a fool. You can trust me, ma."

Soon the Pitkin carriage was as the door, and Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo entered it, and were driven to the shabby house so recently occupied by Mrs. Forbush.

"It's a low place!" said Alonzo contemptuously, as he regarded disdainfully the small dwelling.

"Yes; but I suppose it is as good as she can afford to live in. Lonny, will you get out and ring the bell? Ask if Mrs. Forbush lives there."

Alonzo did as requested.

The door was opened by a small girl, whose shabby dress was in harmony with the place.

"Rebecca's child, I suppose!" said Mrs. Pitkin, who was looking out of the carriage window.

"Does Mrs. Forbush live here?" asked Alonzo.

"No, she doesn't. Mrs. Kavanagh lives here."

"Didn't Mrs. Forbush used to live here?" further asked Alonzo, at the suggestion of his mother.

"I believe she did. She moved out a week ago."

"Do you know where she moved to?"

"No, I don't."

"Does a boy named Philip Brent live here?"

"No, he doesn't."

"Do you know why Mrs. Forbush moved away?" asked Alonzo again, at the suggestion of his mother.

"Guess she couldn't pay her rent."

"Very likely," said Alonzo, who at last had received an answer with which he was pleased.

"Well, ma, there isn't any more to find out here," he said.

"Tell the driver—home!" said his mother.

When they reached the house in Twelfth Street, there was a surprise in store for them.

"Who do you think's up-stairs, mum?" said Hannah, looking important.

"Who? Tell me quick!"

"It's your Uncle Oliver, mum, just got home from Florida; but I guess he's going somewhere else mum, for he's packing up his things."

"Alonzo, we will go up and see him," said Mrs. Pitkin, excited. "I must know what all this means."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN UNSATISFACTORY CONFERENCE.

Mr. Carter was taking articles from a bureau and packing them away in an open trunk, when Mrs. Pitkin entered with Alonzo. It is needless to say that his niece regarded his employment with dismay, for it showed clearly that he proposed to leave the shelter of her roof.

"Uncle Oliver!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair and gazing at the old gentleman spell-bound.

Mr. Carter, whose back had been turned, turned about and faced his niece.

"Oh, it is you, Lavinia!" he said quietly.

"What are you doing?" asked his niece.

"As you see, I am packing my trunk."

"Do you intend to leave us?" faltered Mrs. Pitkin.

"I think it will be well for me to make a change," said Mr. Carter.

"This is, indeed, a sad surprise," said Mrs Pitkin mournfully. "When did you return from Florida?"

"I have never been there. I changed my mind when I reached Charleston."

"How long have you been in the city?"

"About a week."

"And never came near us. This is, indeed, unkind. In what way have we offended you?" and Mrs. Pitkin put her handkerchief to her eyes.

There were no tears in them, but she was making an attempt to touch the heart of her uncle.

"Are you aware that Rebecca Forbush is in the city?" asked the old gentleman abruptly.

"Ye-es," answered Mrs. Pitkin, startled.

"Have you seen her?"

"Ye-es. She came here one day."

"And how did you treat her?" asked Mr. Carter, severely. "Did you not turn the poor woman from the house, having no regard for her evident poverty? Did you not tell her that I was very angry with her, and would not hear her name mentioned?"

"Ye-es, I may have said so. You know, Uncle Oliver, you have held no communication with her for many years."

"That is true—more shame to me!"

"And I thought I was carrying out your wishes in discouraging her visits."

"You also thought that she might be a dangerous rival in my favor, and might deprive you and Alonzo of an expected share in my estate."

"Oh, Uncle Oliver! how can you think so poorly of me?"

Mr. Carter eyed his niece with a half-smile.

"So I do you injustice, do I, Lavinia?" he returned.

"Yes, great injustice."

"I am glad to hear it. I feel less objection now to telling you what are my future plans."

"What are they?" asked Mrs. Pitkin apprehensively.

"I have lived for ten years under your roof, and have had no communication, as you say, with Rebecca. I think it is only fair now that I should show her some attention. I have accordingly installed her as mistress of my house in Madison Avenue, and shall henceforth make my home with her."

Mrs. Pitkin felt as if the earth was sinking under her feet. The hopes and schemes of so many years had come to naught, and her hated and dreaded cousin was to be constantly in the society of the rich uncle.

"Rebecca has played her cards well," she said bitterly.

"She has not played them at all. She did not seek me. I sought her."

"How did you know she was in the city?"

"I learned it from—Philip!"

There was fresh dismay.

"So that boy has wormed his way into your confidence!" said Mrs. Pitkin bitterly. "After acting so badly that Mr. Pitkin was obliged to discharge him, he ran to you to do us a mischief."

"Why was he discharged?" demanded Mr. Carter sternly. "Why did your husband seize the opportunity to get rid of a boy in whom he knew me to be interested as soon as he thought I was out of the way? Why, moreover, did he refuse the boy a reference, without which Philip could scarcely hope to get employment?"

"You will have to ask Mr. Pitkin. I am sure he had good reason for the course he took. He's an impudent, low upstart in my opinion."