contingency, and went about his work in silence.
That evening he wrote to the publisher of the "Standard," inclosing
the price of two copies of the last number, which he desired should
be sent to him by mail.  He wished to keep one himself, and the other
he intended to forward to his father, who, he knew, would sympathize
with him in his success as well as his aspirations.  He accompanied
the paper by a letter in which he said,--

"I want to improve in writing as much as, I can.  I want to be
something more than a printer, sometime.  I shall try to qualify
myself for an editor; for an editor can exert a good deal of
influence in the community.  I hope you will approve my plans."

In due time Harry received the following reply:--


"My dear son:--I am indeed pleased and proud to hear of your success,
not that it is a great matter in itself, but because I think it shows
that you are in earnest in your determination to win an honorable
position by honorable labor.  I am sorry that my narrow means have
not permitted me to give you those advantages which wealthy fathers
can bestow upon their sons.  I should like to have sent you to
college and given you an opportunity afterward of studying for a
profession.  I think your natural abilities would have justified such
an outlay.  But, alas! poverty has always held me back.  It shuts out
you, as it has shut out me, from the chance of culture.  Your
college, my boy, must be the printing office.  If you make the best
of that, you will find that it is no mean instructor.  Not Franklin
alone, but many of our most eminent and influential men have
graduated from it.

"You will be glad to hear that we are all well.  I have sold the cow
which I bought of Squire Green, and got another in her place that
proves to be much better.  We all send much love, and your mother
wishes me to say that she misses you very much, as indeed we all do.
But we know that you are better off in Centreville than you would be
at home, and that helps to make us contented.  Don't forget to write
every week.

"Your affectionate father,
"HIRAM WALTON.

"P. S.--If you print any more articles, we shall be interested to
read them."


Harry read this letter with eager interest.  He felt glad that his
father was pleased with him, and it stimulated him to increased
exertions.

"Poor father!" he said to himself.  "He has led a hard life,
cultivating that rocky little farm.  It has been hard work and poor
pay with him.  I hope there is something better in store for him.  If
I ever get rich, or even well off, I will take care that he has an
easier time."

After the next issue of the "Gazette" had appeared, Harry informed
Ferguson in confidence that he was the author of the article on
Ambition.

"I congratulate you, Harry," said his friend.  "It is an excellent
essay, well thought out, and well expressed.  I don't wonder, now you
tell me of it.  It sounds like you.  Without knowing the authorship,
I asked Clapp his opinion of it."

"What did he say?"

"Are you sure it won't hurt your feelings?"

"It may; but I shall get over it.  Go ahead."

"He said it was rubbish."

Harry laughed.

"He would be confirmed in his decision, if he knew that I wrote it,"
he said.

"No doubt.  But don't let that discourage you.  Keep on writing by
all means, and you'll become an editor in time."




CHAPTER XVI.

FERDINAND B. KENSINGTON.

It has already been mentioned that John Clapp and Luke Harrison were
intimate.  Though their occupations differed, one being a printer and
the other a shoemaker, they had similar tastes, and took similar
views of life.  Both were discontented with the lot which Fortune had
assigned them.  To work at the case, or the shoe-bench, seemed
equally irksome, and they often lamented to each other the hard
necessity which compelled them to it.  Suppose we listen to their
conversation, as they walked up the village street, one evening about
this time, smoking cigars.

"I say, Luke," said John Clapp, "I've got tired of this kind of life.
Here I've been in the office a year, and I'm not a cent richer than
when I entered it, besides working like a dog all the while."

"Just my case," said Luke.  "I've been shoe-makin' ever since I was
fourteen, and I'll be blest if I can show five dollars, to save my
life."

"What's worse," said Clapp, "there isn't any prospect of anything
better in my case.  What's a feller to do on fifteen dollars a week?"

"Won't old Anderson raise your wages?"

"Not he!  He thinks I ought to get rich on what he pays me now," and
Clapp laughed scornfully.  "If I were like Ferguson, I might.  He
never spends a cent without taking twenty-four hours to think it over
beforehand."

My readers, who are familiar with Mr. Ferguson's views and ways of
life, will at once see that this was unjust, but justice cannot be
expected from an angry and discontented man.

"Just so," said Luke.  "If a feller was to live on bread and water,
and get along with one suit of clothes a year, he might save
something, but that aint _my_ style."

"Nor mine."

"It's strange how lucky some men are," said Luke.  "They get rich
without tryin'.  I never was lucky.  I bought a ticket in a lottery
once, but of course I didn't draw anything.  Just my luck!"

"So did I," said Clapp, "but I fared no better.  It seemed as if
Fortune had a spite against me.  Here I am twenty-five years old, and
all I'm worth is two dollars and a half, and I owe more than that to
the tailor."

"You're as rich as I am," said Luke.  "I only get fourteen dollars a
week.  That's less than you do."

"A dollar more or less don't amount to much," said Clapp.  "I'll tell
you what it is, Luke," he resumed after a pause, "I'm getting sick of
Centreville."

"So am I," said Luke, "but it don't make much difference.  If I had
fifty dollars, I'd go off and try my luck somewhere else, but I'll
have to wait till I'm gray-headed before I get as much as that."

"Can't you borrow it?"

"Who'd lend it to me?"

"I don't know.  If I did, I'd go in for borrowing myself.  I wish
there was some way of my getting to California."

"California!" repeated Luke with interest.  "What would you do there?"

"I'd go to the mines."

"Do you think there's money to be made there?"

"I know there is," said Clapp, emphatically.

"How do you know it?"

"There's an old school-mate of mine--Ralph Smith--went out there two
years ago.  Last week he returned home--I heard it in a letter--and
how much do you think he brought with him?"

"How much?"

"Eight thousand dollars!"

"Eight thousand dollars!  He didn't make it all at the mines, did he?"

"Yes, he did.  When he went out there, he had just money enough to
pay his passage.  Now, after only two years, he can lay off and live
like a gentleman."

"He's been lucky, and no mistake."

"You bet he has.  But we might be as lucky if we were only out there."

"Ay, there's the rub.  A fellow can't travel for nothing."

At this point in their conversation, a well-dressed young man,
evidently a stranger in the village, met them, and stopping, asked
politely for a light.

This Clapp afforded him.

"You are a stranger in the village?" he said, with some curiosity.

"Yes, I was never here before.  I come from New York."

"Indeed!  If I lived in New York I'd stay there, and not come to such
a beastly place as Centreville."

"Do you live here?" asked the stranger.

"Yes."

"I wonder you live in such a beastly place," he said, with a smile.

"You wouldn't, if you knew the reason."

"What is the reason?"

"I can't get away."

The stranger laughed.

"Cruel parents?" he asked.

"Not much," said Clapp.  "The plain reason is, that I haven't got
money enough to get me out of town."

"It's the same with me," said Luke Harrison.

"Gentlemen, we are well met," said the stranger.  "I'm hard up
myself."

"You don't look like it," said Luke, glancing at his rather flashy
attire.

"These clothes are not paid for," said the stranger, laughing; "and
what's more, I don't think they are likely to be.  But, I take it,
you gentlemen are better off than I in one respect.  You've got
situations--something to do."

"Yes, but on starvation pay," said Clapp.  "I'm in the office of the
'Centreville Gazette.'"

"And I'm in a shoemaker's shop.  It's a beastly business for a young
man of spirit," said Luke.

"Well, I'm a gentleman at large, living on my wits, and pretty poor
living it is sometimes," said the stranger.  "As I think we'll agree
together pretty well, I'm glad I've met you.  We ought to know each
other better.  There's my card."

He drew from his pocket a highly glazed piece of pasteboard, bearing
the name,

FREDERICK B. KENSINGTON.

"I haven't any cards with me," said Clapp, "but my name is John
Clapp."

"And mine is Luke Harrison," said the bearer of that appellation.

"I'm proud to know you, gentlemen.   If you have no objection, we'll
walk on together."

To this Clapp and Luke acceded readily.  Indeed, they were rather
proud of being seen in company with a young man so dashing in manner,
and fashionably dressed, though in a pecuniary way their new
acquaintance, by his own confession, was scarcely as well off as
themselves.

"Where are you staying, Mr. Kensington?" said Clapp.

"At the hotel.  It's a poor place.  No style."

"Of course not.  I can't help wondering, Mr. Kensington, what can
bring you to such a one-horse place as this."

"I don't mind telling you, then.  The fact is, I've got an old aunt
living about two miles from here.  She's alone in the world--got
neither chick nor child--and is worth at least ten thousand dollars.
Do you see?"

"I think I do," said Clapp.  "You want to come in for a share of the
stamps."

"Yes; I want to see if I can't get something out of the old girl,"
said Kensington, carelessly.

"Do you think the chance is good?"

"I don't know.  I hear she's pretty tight-fisted.  But I've run on
here on the chance of doing something.  If she will only make me her
heir, and give me five hundred dollars in hand, I'll go to
California, and see what'll turn up."

"California!" repeated John Clapp and Luke in unison.

"Yes; were you ever there?"

"No; but we were talking of going there just as you came up," said
John.  "An old school-mate of mine has just returned from there with
eight thousand dollars in gold."

"Lucky fellow!  That's the kind of haul I'd like to make."

"Do you know how much it costs to go out there?"

"The prices are down just at present.  You can go for a hundred
dollars--second cabin."

"It might as well be a thousand!" said Luke.  "Clapp and I can't
raise a hundred dollars apiece to save our lives."

"I'll tell you what," said Kensington.  "You two fellows are just the
company I'd like.  If I can raise five hundred dollars out of the old
girl, I'll take you along with me, and you can pay me after you get
out there."

John Clapp and Luke Harrison were astounded at this liberal offer
from a perfect stranger, but they had no motives of delicacy about
accepting it.  They grasped the hand of their new friend, and assured
him that nothing would suit them so well.

"All right!" said Kensington.  "Then it's agreed.  Now, boys, suppose
we go round to the tavern, and ratify our compact by a drink."

"I say amen to that," answered Clapp, "but I insist on standing
treat."

"Just as you say," said Kensington.  "Come along."

It was late when the three parted company.  Luke and John Clapp were
delighted with their new friend, and, as they staggered home with
uncertain steps, they indulged in bright visions of future prosperity.




CHAPTER XVII.

AUNT DEBORAH.

Miss Deborah Kensington sat in an old-fashioned rocking-chair covered
with a cheap print, industriously engaged in footing a stocking.  She
was a maiden lady of about sixty, with a thin face, thick seamed with
wrinkles, a prominent nose, bridged by spectacles, sharp gray eyes,
and thin lips.   She was a shrewd New England woman, who knew very
well how to take care of and increase the property which she had
inherited.  Her nephew had been correctly informed as to her being
close-fisted.  All her establishment was carried on with due regard
to economy, and though her income in the eyes of a city man would be
counted small, she saved half of it every year, thus increasing her
accumulations.

As she sat placidly knitting, an interruption came in the shape of a
knock at the front door.

"I'll go myself," she said, rising, and laying down the stocking.
"Hannah's out in the back room, and won't hear.  I hope it aint Mrs.
Smith, come to borrow some butter.  She aint returned that last
half-pound she borrowed.  She seems to think her neighbors have got
to support her."

These thoughts were in her mind as she opened the door.  But no Mrs.
Smith presented her figure to the old lady's gaze.  She saw instead,
with considerable surprise, a stylish young man with a book under his
arm.  She jumped to the conclusion that he was a book-pedler, having
been annoyed by several persistent specimens of that class of
travelling merchants.

"If you've got books to sell," she said, opening the attack, "you may
as well go away.  I aint got no money to throw away."

Mr. Ferdinand B. Kensington--for he was the young man in
question--laughed heartily, while the old lady stared at him half
amazed, half angry.

"I don't see what there is to laugh at," said she, offended.

"I was laughing at the idea of my being taken for a book-pedler."

"Well, aint you one?" she retorted.  "If you aint, what be you?"

"Aunt Deborah, don't you know me?" asked the young man, familiarly.

"Who are you that calls me aunt?" demanded the old lady, puzzled.

"I'm your brother Henry's son.  My name is Ferdinand."

"You don't say so!" ejaculated the old lady.  "Why, I'd never 'ave
thought it.  I aint seen you since you was a little boy."

"This don't look as if I was a little boy, aunt," said the young man,
touching his luxuriant whiskers.

"How time passes, I do declare!" said Deborah.  "Well, come in, and
we'll talk over old times.  Where did you come from?"

"From the city of New York.  That's where I've been living for some
time."

"You don't say!  Well, what brings you this way?"

"To see you, Aunt Deborah.  It's so long since I've seen you that I
thought I'd like to come."

"I'm glad to see you, Ferdinand," said the old lady, flattered by
such a degree of dutiful attention from a fine-looking young man.
"So your poor father's dead?"

"Yes, aunt, he's been dead three years."

"I suppose he didn't leave much.  He wasn't very forehanded."

"No, aunt; he left next to nothing."

"Well, it didn't matter much, seein' as you was the only child, and
big enough to take care of yourself."

"Still, aunt, it would have been comfortable if he had left me a few
thousand dollars."

"Aint you doin' well?  You look as if you was," said Deborah,
surveying critically her nephew's good clothes.

"Well, I've been earning a fair salary, but it's very expensive
living in a great city like New York."

"Humph! that's accordin' as you manage.  If you live snug, you can
get along there cheap as well as anywhere, I reckon.  What was you
doin'?"

"I was a salesman for A. T. Stewart, our leading dry-goods merchant."

"What pay did you get?"

"A thousand dollars a year."

"Why, that's a fine salary.  You'd ought to save up a good deal."

"You don't realize how much it costs to live in New York, aunt.  Of
course, if I lived here, I could live on half the sum, but I have to
pay high prices for everything in New York."

"You don't need to spend such a sight on dress," said Deborah,
disapprovingly.

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Deborah; that's where you are mistaken.  The
store-keepers in New York expect you to dress tip-top and look
genteel, so as to do credit to them.  If it hadn't been for that, I
shouldn't have spent half so much for dress.  Then, board's very
expensive."

"You can get boarded here for two dollars and a half a week," said
Aunt Deborah.

"Two dollars and a half!  Why, I never paid less than eight dollars a
week in the city, and you can only get poor board for that."

"The boarding-houses must make a great deal of money," said Deborah.
"If I was younger, I'd maybe go to New York, and keep one myself."

"You're rich, aunt.  You don't need to do that."

"Who told you I was rich?" said the old lady, quickly.

"Why, you've only got yourself to take care of, and you own this
farm, don't you?"

"Yes, but farmin' don't pay much."

"I always heard you were pretty comfortable."

"So I am," said the old lady, "and maybe I save something; but my
income aint as great as yours."

"You have only yourself to look after, and it is cheap living in
Centreville."

"I don't fling money away.  I don't spend quarter as much as you on
dress."

Looking at the old lady'a faded bombazine dress, Ferdinand was very
ready to believe this.

"You don't have to dress here, I suppose," he answered.  "But, aunt,
we won't talk about money matters just yet.  It was funny you took me
for a book-pedler."

"It was that book you had, that made me think so."

"It's a book I brought as a present to you, Aunt Deborah."

"You don't say!" said the old lady, gratified.  "What is it?  Let me
look at it."

"It's a copy of 'Pilgrim's Progress,' illustrated.  I knew you
wouldn't like the trashy books they write nowadays, so I brought you
this."

"Really, Ferdinand, you're very considerate," said Aunt Deborah,
turning over the leaves with manifest pleasure.  "It's a good book,
and I shall be glad to have it.  Where are you stoppin'?"

"At the hotel in the village."

"You must come and stay here.  You can get 'em to send round your
things any time."

"Thank you, aunt, I shall be delighted to do so.  It seems so
pleasant to see you again after so many years.  You don't look any
older than when I saw you last."

Miss Deborah knew very well that she did look older, but still she
was pleased by the compliment.  Is there any one who does not like to
receive the same assurance?

"I'm afraid your eyes aint very sharp, Ferdinand," she said.  "I feel
I'm gettin' old.  Why, I'm sixty-one, come October."

"Are you?  I shouldn't call you over fifty, from your looks, aunt.
Really I shouldn't."

"I'm afraid you tell fibs sometimes," said Aunt Deborah, but she said
it very graciously, and surveyed her nephew very kindly.  "Heigh ho!
it's a good while since your poor father and I were children
together, and went to the school-house on the hill.  Now he's gone,
and I'm left alone."

"Not alone, aunt.  If he is dead, you have got a nephew."

"Well, Ferdinand, I'm glad to see you, and I shall be glad to have
you pay me a good long visit.  But how can you be away from your
place so long?  Did Mr. Stewart give you a vacation?"

"No, aunt; I left him."

"For good?"

"Yes."

"Left a place where you was gettin' a thousand dollars a year!" said
the old lady in accents of strong disapproval.

"Yes, aunt."

"Then I think you was very foolish," said Deborah with emphasis.

"Perhaps you won't, when you know why I left it."

"Why did you?"

"Because I could do better."

"Better than a thousand dollars a year!" said Deborah with surprise.

"Yes, I am offered two thousand dollars in San Francisco."

"You don't say!" ejaculated Deborah, letting her stocking drop in
sheer amazement.

"Yes, I do.  It's a positive fact."

"You must be a smart clerk!"

"Well, it isn't for me to say," said Ferdinand, laughing.

"When be you goin' out?"

"In a week, but I thought I must come and bid you good-by first."

"I'm real glad to see you, Ferdinand," said Aunt Deborah, the more
warmly because she considered him so prosperous that she would have
no call to help him.  But here she was destined to find herself
mistaken.




CHAPTER XVIII.

AUNT AND NEPHEW.

"I don't think I can come here till to-morrow, Aunt Deborah," said
Ferdinand, a little later.  "I'll stay at the hotel to-night, and
come round with my baggage in the morning."

"Very well, nephew, but now you're here, you must stay to tea."

"Thank you, aunt, I will."

"I little thought this mornin', I should have Henry's son to tea,"
said Aunt Deborah, half to herself.  "You don't look any like him,
Ferdinand."

"No, I don't think I do."

"It's curis too, for you was his very picter when you was a boy."

"I've changed a good deal since then, Aunt Deborah," said her nephew,
a little uneasily.

"So you have, to be sure.  Now there's your hair used to be almost
black, now it's brown.  Really I can't account for it," and Aunt
Deborah surveyed the young man over her spectacles.

"You've got a good memory, aunt," said Ferdinand with a forced laugh.

"Now ef your hair had grown darker, I shouldn't have wondered,"
pursued Aunt Deborah; "but it aint often black turns to brown."