&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a letter for you, Harry,&rdquo; said George Howard. &ldquo;I was passing the hotel on my way home from school when Abner Potts called out to me from the piazza, and asked me to bring it.&rdquo;<br />The speaker was a bright, round-faced boy of ten. The boy whom he addressed was five or six years older. Only a week previous he had lost his father, and as the family consisted only of these two, he was left, so far as near relatives were concerned, alone in the world.<br />Immediately after the funeral he had been invited home by Mr. Benjamin Howard, a friend of his father, but in no manner connected with him by ties of relationship.<br />&ldquo;You can stay here as long as you like, Harry,&rdquo; said Mr. Howard, kindly. &ldquo;It will take you some time to form your plans, perhaps, and George will be glad to have your company.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Thank you, Mr. Howard,&rdquo; said Harry, gratefully.<br />&ldquo;Shall you look for some employment here?&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;No; my father has a second cousin in Colebrook, named John Fox. Before he died he advised me to write to Mr. Fox, and go to his house if I should receive an invitation.&rdquo;