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      Grit / or The Young Boatman of Pine Point

      CHAPTER I.

      GRIT

      "Grit!"

      "Well, mother, what is it?"

      The speaker was a sturdy, thick-set boy of fifteen, rather short for his age, but strongly made. His eyes were clear and bright, his expression was pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a superficial observer could read in it unusual firmness and strength of will. He was evidently a boy whom it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. He was sure to make his way in the world, and maintain his rights against all aggression. It was the general recognition of this trait which had led to the nickname, "Grit," by which he was generally known. His real name was Harry Morris, but even his mother had fallen into the habit of calling him Grit, and his own name actually sounded strange to him.

      "Well, mother, what is it?" he asked again, as his mother continued to look at him in silence, with an expression of trouble on her face.

      "I had a letter this morning, Grit."

      "From—him?"

      "Yes, from your father."

      "Don't call him my father!" said the boy hastily. "He isn't my father."

      "He is your stepfather—and my husband," said Mrs. Morris soberly.

      "Yes, worse luck for you! Well, what does he say?"

      "He's coming home."

      An expression of dismay quickly gathered on the boy's face.

      "How can that be? His term isn't out."

      "It is shortened by good behavior, and so he comes out four months before his sentence would have expired."

      "I wouldn't have him here, mother," said Grit earnestly. "He will only worry and trouble you. We are getting on comfortably now without him."

      "Yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy."

      "Oh, don't talk about that," said Grit, who always felt embarrassed when openly praised.

      "But it is true, Grit. But for the money you make in your boat, I might have to go to the poorhouse."

      "You will never go while I live, mother," said Grit quickly.

      "No, Grit, I feel sure of that. It seems wicked to rejoice in your father's misfortune and disgrace–"

      "Not my father," interrupted Grit.

      "Mr. Brandon, then. As I was saying, it seems wicked to feel relieved by his imprisonment, but I can't help it."

      "Why should you try to help it? He has made you a bad husband, and only brought you unhappiness. How did you ever come to marry him, mother?"

      "I did it for the best, as I thought, Grit. I was left a widow when you were four years old. I had this cottage, to be sure, and about two thousand dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. only amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars, and I was not brave and self-reliant like some, so when Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him, I did so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be a father to you, and save us from all pecuniary care or anxiety."

      "You were pretty soon undeceived, mother."

      "No, not soon. Your stepfather had a good mercantile position in Boston, and we occupied a comfortable cottage in Newton. For some years all went well, but then I began to see a change for the worse in him. He became fond of drink, was no longer attentive to business, picked up bad associates, and eventually lost his position. This was when you were ten years of age. Then he took possession of my little capital and went into business for himself. But his old habits clung to him, and of course there was small chance of success. He kept up for about a year, however, and then he failed, and the creditors took everything–"

      "Except this house, mother."

      "Yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me, so that my husband could not get hold of it. When we were turned out of our home in Newton, it proved a welcome refuge for us. It was small, plain, humble, but still it gave us a home."

      "It has been a happy home, mother—that is, ever since Mr. Brandon left us."

      "Yes; we have lived plainly, but I have had you, and you have always been a comfort to me. You were always a good boy, Grit."

      "I'm not quite an angel, mother. Ask Phil Courtney what he thinks about it," said Grit, smiling.

      "He is a bad, disagreeable boy," said Mrs. Brandon warmly.

      "So I think, mother; but Phil, on the other hand, thinks I am a low, vulgar boy, unworthy of associating with him."

      "I don't want you to associate with him, Grit."

      "I don't care to, mother; but we are getting away from the subject. How did Mr. Brandon behave after you moved here?"

      "He did nothing to earn money, but managed to obtain liquor at the tavern, and sometimes went off for three or four days or a week, leaving me in ignorance of his whereabouts. At last he did not come back at all, and I heard that he had been arrested for forgery, and was on trial. The trial was quickly over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years. I saw him before he was carried to prison, but he treated me so rudely that I have not felt it my duty to visit him since. Gradually I resumed your father's name, and I have been known as Mrs. Morris, though my legal name of course is Brandon."

      "It is a pity you ever took the name, mother," said Grit hastily.

      "I agree with you, Grit; but I cannot undo the past."

      "The court ought to grant you a divorce from such a man."

      "Perhaps I might obtain one, but it would cost money, and we have no money to spend on such things."

      "If you had one," said Grit thoughtfully, "Mr. Brandon would no longer have any claim upon you."

      "That is true."

      "You said you had a letter from him. When did you receive it?"

      "While you were out, this morning. Mr. Wheeler saw it in the post-office, and brought it along, thinking we might not have occasion to call."

      "May I see the letter, mother?"

      "Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you."

      Mrs. Morris—to call her by the name she preferred—took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yellow envelope, which, however, was directed in a neat, clerky hand, for Mr. Brandon had been carefully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been a bookkeeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing hand.

      "Here it is, Grit."

      Grit opened the letter, and read as follows:

"'– Prison, May 10.

      "My Affectionate Wife: I have no doubt you will be overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly over, and that on the fifteenth, probably, I shall be set free, and can leave these cursed walls behind me. Of course, I shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has not deigned for years to remember that she has a husband. You might at least have called now and then, to show some interest in me.'

      "Why should you?" ejaculated Grit indignantly. "He has only illtreated you, spent your money, and made you unhappy."

      "You think, then, I was right in staying away, Grit?" asked his mother.

      "Certainly I do. You don't pretend to love him?"

      "No, I only married him at his urgent request, thinking I was doing what was best for you. It was a bad day's work for me. I could have got along much better alone."

      "Of course you could, mother. Well, I will read the rest:

      "'However, you are my wife still, and owe me some reparation for your long neglect. I shall come to Pine Point as soon as I can, and it is hardly necessary to remind you that I shall be out of money, and shall want you to stir round and get me some, as I shall want to buy some clothes and other things."

      "How does he think you are to supply him with money, when he has left you to take care of yourself all these years?" again burst from Grit's indignant

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