LITMIR.BIZ

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the sickness of Walter Bruce he had given up his time to helping his mother and the care of the sick man. The money received from the minister enabled him to do this. Now the weekly income had ceased, and it became a serious question what he should do to bring in an income.

      He had almost forgotten his meeting with Herbert Conrad, the young artist, when the day after the funeral he received a letter in an unknown hand, addressed to "Master Chester Rand, Wyncombe, New York."

      As he opened it, his eyes opened wide with surprise and joy, when two five-dollar bills fluttered to the ground, for he had broken the seal in front of the post office.

      He read the letter eagerly. It ran thus:

      "Dear Chester:—I am glad to say that I have sold your sketch for ten dollars to one of the papers I showed you at Wyncombe. If you have any others ready, send them along. Try to think up some bright, original idea, and illustrate it in your best style. Then send to me.

      "Your sincere friend,    Herbert."

      Chester hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. It seems almost incredible that a sketch which he had dashed off in twenty minutes should bring in such a magnificent sum.

      And for the first time it dawned upon him he was an artist. Fifty dollars gained in any other way would not have given him so much satisfaction. Why, it was only three weeks that he had been out of a place, and he had received more than he would have been paid in that time by Mr. Tripp.

      He decided to tell no one of his good luck but his mother and the minister. If he were fortunate enough to earn more, the neighbors might wonder as they pleased about the source of his supplies. The money came at the right time, for his mother needed some articles at the store. He concluded to get them on the way home.

      Silas Tripp was weighing out some sugar for a customer when Chester entered. Silas eyed him sharply, and was rather surprised to find him cheerful and in good spirits.

      "How's your mother this mornin', Chester?" asked the grocer.

      "Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Tripp."

      "Are you doin' anything yet?"

      "There doesn't seem to be much work to do in Wyncombe," answered Chester, noncommittally.

      "You was foolish to leave a stiddy job at the store."

      "I couldn't afford to work for the money you offered me."

      "Two dollars and a quarter is better than nothin'. I would have paid you two and a half. I like you better than that Wood boy. Is your mother workin'?"

      "She is doing a little sewing, but she had no time for that with a sick man in the house."

      "I don't see what made you keep a man that was no kith or kin to you."

      "Would you have had us put him into the street, Mr. Tripp?"

      "I'd have laid the matter before the selec'-men, and got him into the poorhouse."

      "Well, it is all over now, and I'm not sorry that we cared for the poor fellow. I would like six pounds of sugar and two of butter."

      "You ain't goin' to run a bill, be you?" asked Silas, cautiously. "I can't afford to trust out any more."

      "We don't owe you anything, do we, Mr. Tripp?"

      "No; but I thought mebbe–"

      "I will pay for the articles," said Chester, briefly.

      When he tendered the five-dollar bill Silas Tripp looked amazed.

      "Where did you get so much money?" he gasped.

      "Isn't it a good bill?" asked Chester.

      "Why, yes, but–"

      "I think that is all you have a right to ask," said Chester, firmly. "It can't make any difference to you where it came from."

      "I thought you were poor," said Mr. Tripp.

      "So we are."

      "But it seems strange that you should have so much money."

      "Five dollars isn't much money, Mr. Tripp."

      Then a sudden idea came to Silas Tripp, and he paused in weighing out the butter.

      "Did my nephew leave any money?" he asked, sharply.

      "Yes, sir."

      "Then I lay claim to it. I'm his only relation, and it is right that I should have it."

      "You shall have it if you will pay the expense of his illness."

      "Humph! how much did he leave?"

      "Thirty-seven cents."

      Mr. Tripp looked discomfited.

      "You can keep it," he said, magnanimously. "I don't lay no claim to it."

      "Thank you," returned Chester, gravely.

      "Then this five-dollar bill didn't come from him?"

      "How could it? he hadn't as much money in the world."

      "He was a shif'less man. 'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'" observed Mr. Tripp, in a moralizing tone.

      "You haven't been a rolling stone, Mr. Tripp."

      "No; I've stuck to the store year in and year out for thirty-five years. I ain't had more'n three days off in that time."

      "If I had your money, Mr. Tripp, I'd go off and enjoy myself."

      "What, and leave the store?" said Silas, aghast at the thought.

      "You could hire some one to run it."

      "I wouldn't find much left when I came back; No, I must stay at home and attend to business. Do your folks go to bed early, Chester?"

      "Not before ten," answered Chester, in some surprise.

      "Then I'll call this evenin' after the store is closed."

      "Very well, sir. You'll find us up."

      The idea had occurred to Mr. Tripp that Mrs. Rand must be very short of money, and might be induced to dispose of her place at a largely reduced figure. It would be a good-paying investment for him, and he was not above taking advantage of a poor widow's necessities. Of course neither Mrs. Rand nor Chester had any idea of his motives or intentions, and they awaited his visit with considerable curiosity.

      About fifteen minutes after nine a shuffling was heard at the door, there was a knock, and a minute later Chester admitted the thin and shriveled figure of Silas Tripp.

      "Good-evening, Mr. Tripp," said Mrs. Rand, politely.

      "Good-evenin', ma'am, I thought I'd call in and inquire how you were gettin' along."

      "Thank you, Mr. Tripp, for the interest you show in our affairs. We are not doing very well, as you may imagine."

      "So I surmised, ma'am. So I surmised."

      "It can't be possible he is going to offer us a loan," thought Chester.

      "You've got a tidy little place here, ma'am. It isn't mortgaged, I rec'on."

      "No, Sir."

      "Why don't you sell it? You need the money, and you might hire another house, or pay rent for this."

      "Do you know of anyone that wants to buy it, Mr. Tripp?"

      "Mebbe I'd buy it myself, jest to help you along," answered Silas, cautiously.

      "How much would you be willing to give?" put in Chester.

      "Well, I calculate—real estate's very low at present—three hundred and fifty dollars would be a fair price."

      Mrs. Rand looked amazed.

      "Three hundred and fifty dollars!" she ejaculated. "Why, it is worth at least seven hundred."

      "You couldn't get it, ma'am. That's a fancy price."

      "What rent would you charge in case we sold it to you, Mr. Tripp," asked Chester.

      "Well, say five dollars a month."

      "About sixteen or seventeen per cent. on

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