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Title: Adrift in New York
       Tom and Florence Braving the World


Author: Horatio Alger



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ADRIFT IN NEW YORK

Or, Tom and Florence Braving the World

by

HORATIO ALGER, JR.

Author of "Mark Mason's Victory," "Ben Bruce," "Bernard Brook's
Adventures," "A Debt of Honor," etc., etc.







A. L. Burt Company, Publishers
New York
1900




ADRIFT IN NEW YORK.



Chapter I.
The Missing Heir.


"Uncle, you are not looking well to-night."

"I'm not well, Florence. I sometimes doubt if I shall ever be any
better."

"Surely, uncle, you cannot mean----"

"Yes, my child, I have reason to believe that I am nearing the end."

"I cannot bear to hear you speak so, uncle," said Florence Linden, in
irrepressible agitation. "You are not an old man. You are but
fifty-four."

"True, Florence, but it is not years only that make a man old. Two
great sorrows have embittered my life. First, the death of my dearly
beloved wife, and next, the loss of my boy, Harvey."

"It is long since I have heard you refer to my cousin's loss. I
thought you had become reconciled--no, I do not mean that,--I thought
your regret might be less poignant."

"I have not permitted myself to speak of it, but I have never ceased
to think of it day and night."

John Linden paused sadly, then resumed:

"If he had died, I might, as you say, have become reconciled; but he
was abducted at the age of four by a revengeful servant whom I had
discharged from my employment. Heaven knows whether he is living or
dead, but it is impressed upon my mind that he still lives, it may be
in misery, it may be as a criminal, while I, his unhappy father, live
on in luxury which I cannot enjoy, with no one to care for me----"

Florence Linden sank impulsively on her knees beside her uncle's
chair.

"Don't say that, uncle," she pleaded. "You know that I love you, Uncle
John."

"And I, too, uncle."

There was a shade of jealousy in the voice of Curtis Waring as he
entered the library through the open door, and approaching his uncle,
pressed his hand.

He was a tall, dark-complexioned man, of perhaps thirty-five, with
shifty, black eyes and thin lips, shaded by a dark mustache. It was
not a face to trust.

Even when he smiled the expression of his face did not soften. Yet he
could moderate his voice so as to express tenderness and sympathy.

He was the son of an elder sister of Mr. Linden, while Florence was
the daughter of a younger brother.

Both were orphans, and both formed a part of Mr. Linden's household,
and owed everything to his bounty.

Curtis was supposed to be in some business downtown; but he received a
liberal allowance from his uncle, and often drew upon him for outside
assistance.

As he stood with his uncle's hand in his, he was necessarily brought
near Florence, who instinctively drew a little away, with a slight
shudder indicating repugnance.

Slight as it was, Curtis detected it, and his face darkened.

John Linden looked from one to the other. "Yes," he said, "I must not
forget that I have a nephew and a niece. You are both dear to me, but
no one can take the place of the boy I have lost."

"But it is so long ago, uncle," said Curtis. "It must be fourteen
years."

"It is fourteen years."

"And the boy is long since dead!"

"No, no!" said John Linden, vehemently. "I do not, I will not, believe
it. He still lives, and I live only in the hope of one day clasping
him in my arms."

"That is very improbable, uncle," said Curtis, in a tone of annoyance.
"There isn't one chance in a hundred that my cousin still lives. The
grave has closed over him long since. The sooner you make up your mind
to accept the inevitable the better."

The drawn features of the old man showed that the words had a
depressing effect upon his mind, but Florence interrupted her cousin
with an indignant protest.

"How can you speak so, Curtis?" she exclaimed. "Leave Uncle John the
hope that he has so long cherished. I have a presentiment that Harvey
still lives."

John Linden's face brightened up

"You, too, believe it possible, Florence?" he said, eagerly.

"Yes, uncle. I not only believe it possible, but probable. How old
would Harvey be if he still lived?"

"Eighteen--nearly a year older than yourself."

"How strange! I always think of him as a little boy."

"And I, too, Florence. He rises before me in his little velvet suit,
as he was when I last saw him, with his sweet, boyish face, in which
his mother's looks were reflected."

"Yet, if still living," interrupted Curtis, harshly, "he is a rough
street boy, perchance serving his time at Blackwell's Island, and, a
hardened young ruffian, whom it would be bitter mortification to
recognize as your son."

"That's the sorrowful part of it," said his uncle, in a voice of
anguish. "That is what I most dread."

"Then, since even if he were living you would not care to recognize
him, why not cease to think of him, or else regard him as dead?"

"Curtis Waring, have you no heart?" demanded Florence, indignantly.

"Indeed, Florence, you ought to know," said Curtis, sinking his voice
into softly modulated accents.

"I know nothing of it," said Florence, coldly, rising from her
recumbent position, and drawing aloof from Curtis.

"You know that the dearest wish of my heart is to find favor in your
eyes. Uncle, you know my wish, and approve of it, do you not?"

"Yes, Curtis; you and Florence are equally dear to me, and it is my
hope that you may be united. In that case, there will be no division
of my fortune. It will be left to you jointly."

"Believe me, sir," said Curtis, with faltering voice, feigning an
emotion which he did not feel, "believe me, that I fully appreciate
your goodness. I am sure Florence joins with me----"

"Florence can speak for herself," said his cousin, coldly. "My uncle
needs no assurance from me. He is always kind, and I am always
grateful."

John Linden seemed absorbed in thought.

"I do not doubt your affection," he said; "and I have shown it by
making you my joint heirs in the event of your marriage; but it is
only fair to say that my property goes to my boy, if he still lives."

"But, sir," protested Curtis, "is not that likely to create
unnecessary trouble? It can never be known, and meanwhile----"

"You and Florence will hold the property in trust."

"Have you so specified in your will?" asked Curtis.

"I have made two wills. Both are in yonder secretary. By the first the
property is bequeathed to you and Florence. By the second and later,
it goes to my lost boy in the event of his recovery. Of course, you
and Florence are not forgotten, but the bulk of the property goes to
Harvey."

"I sincerely wish the boy might be restored to you," said Curtis; but
his tone belied his words. "Believe me, the loss of the property would
affect me little, if you could be made happy by realizing your warmest
desire; but, uncle, I think it only the part of a friend to point out
to you, as I have already done, the baselessness of any such
expectation."

"It may be as you say, Curtis," said his uncle, with a sigh. "If I
were thoroughly convinced of it, I would destroy the later will, and
leave my property absolutely to you and Florence."

"No, uncle," said Florence, impulsively, "make no change; let the will
stand."

Curtis, screened from his uncle's view, darted a glance of bitter
indignation at Florence.

"Is the girl mad?" he muttered to himself. "Must she forever balk me?"

"Let it be so for the present, then," said Mr. Linden, wearily.
"Curtis, will you ring the bell? I am tired, and shall retire to my
couch early."

"Let me help you, Uncle John," said Florence, eagerly.

"It is too much for your strength, my child. I am growing more and
more helpless."

"I, too, can help," said Curtis.

John Linden, supported on either side by his nephew and niece, left
the room, and was assisted to his chamber.

Curtis and Florence returned to the library.

"Florence," said her cousin, "my uncle's intentions, as expressed
to-night, make it desirable that there should be an understanding
between us. Take a seat beside me"--leading her to a sofa--"and let
us talk this matter over."

With a gesture of repulsion Florence declined the proffered seat, and
remained standing.

"As you please," she answered, coldly.

"Will you be seated?"

"No; our interview will be brief."

"Then I will come to the point. Uncle John wishes to see us united."

"It can never be!" said Florence, decidedly.

Curtis bit his lip in mortification, for her tone was cold and
scornful.

Mingled with this mortification was genuine regret, for, so far as he
was capable of loving any one, he loved his fair young cousin.

"You profess to love Uncle John, and yet you would disappoint his
cherished hope!" he returned.

"Is it his cherished hope?"

"There is no doubt about it. He has spoken to me more than once on the
subject. Feeling that his end is near, he wishes to leave you in
charge of a protector."

"I can protect myself," said Florence, proudly.

"You think so. You do not consider the hapless lot of a penniless girl
in a cold and selfish world."

"Penniless?" repeated Florence, in an accent of surprise.

"Yes, penniless. Our uncle's bequest to you is conditional upon your
acceptance of my hand."

"Has he said this?" asked Florence, sinking into an armchair, with a
helpless look.

"He has told me so more than once," returned Curtis, smoothly. "You
don't know how near to his heart this marriage is. I know what you
would say: If the property comes to me I could come to your
assistance, but I am expressly prohibited from doing so. I have
pleaded with my uncle in your behalf, but in vain."

Florence was too clear-sighted not to penetrate his falsehood.

"If my uncle's heart is hardened against me," she said, "I shall be
too wise to turn to you. I am to understand, then, that my choice lies
between poverty and a union with you?"

"You have stated it correctly, Florence."

"Then," said Florence, arising, "I will not hesitate. I shrink from
poverty, for I have been reared in luxury, but I will sooner live in
a hovel--"

"Or a tenement house," interjected Curtis, with a sneer.

"Yes, or a tenement house, than become the wife of one I loathe."

"Girl, you shall bitterly repent that word!" said Curtis, stung to
fury.

She did not reply, but, pale and sorrowful, glided from the room to
weep bitter tears in the seclusion of her chamber.




Chapter II.
A Stranger Visitor.


Curtis Waring followed the retreating form of his cousin with a
sardonic smile.

"She is in the toils! She cannot escape me!" he muttered. "But"--and
here his brow darkened--"it vexes me to see how she repels my
advances, as if I were some loathsome thing! If only she would return
my love--for I do love her, cold as she is--I should be happy. Can
there be a rival? But no! we live so quietly that she has met no one
who could win her affection. Why can she not turn to me? Surely, I am
not so ill-favored, and though twice her age, I am still a young man.
Nay, it is only a young girl's caprice. She shall yet come to my arms,
a willing captive."

His thoughts took a turn, as he arose from his seat, and walked over
to the secretary.

"So it is here that the two wills are deposited!" he said to himself;
"one making me a rich man, the other a beggar! While the last is in
existence I am not safe. The boy may be alive, and liable to turn up
at any moment. If only he were dead--or the will destroyed----" Here
he made a suggestive pause.

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and tried one after another,
but without success. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not
notice the entrance of a dark-browed, broad-shouldered man, dressed in
a shabby corduroy suit, till the intruder indulged in a short cough,
intended to draw attention.

Starting with guilty consciousness, Curtis turned sharply around, and
his glance fell on the intruder.

"Who are you?" he demanded, angrily. "And how dare you enter a
gentleman's house unbidden?"

"Are you the gentleman?" asked the intruder, with intentional
insolence.

"Yes."

"You own this house?"

"Not at present. It is my uncle's."

"And that secretary--pardon my curiosity--is his?"

"Yes; but what business is it of yours?"

"Not much. Only it makes me laugh to see a gentleman picking a lock.
You should leave such business to men like me!"

"You are an insolent fellow!" said Curtis, more embarrassed than he
liked to confess, for this rough-looking man had become possessed of a
dangerous secret. "I am my uncle's confidential agent, and it was on
business of his that I wished to open the desk."

"Why not go to him for the key?"

"Because he is sick. But, pshaw! why should I apologize or give any
explanation to you? What can you know of him or me?"

"More, perhaps, than you suspect," said the intruder, quietly.

"Then, you know, perhaps, that I am my uncle's heir?"

"Don't be too sure of that."

"Look here, fellow," said Curtis, thoroughly provoked, "I don't know
who you are nor what you mean, but let me inform you that your
presence here is an intrusion, and the sooner you leave the house the
better!"

"I will leave it when I get ready."

Curtis started to his feet, and advanced to his visitor with an air of
menace.

"Go at once," he exclaimed, angrily, "or I will kick you out of the
door!"

"What's the matter with the window?" returned the stranger, with an
insolent leer.

"That's as you prefer, but if you don't leave at once I will eject
you."

By way of reply, the rough visitor coolly seated himself in a
luxurious easy-chair, and, looking up into the angry face of Waring,
said:

"Oh, no, you won't."

"And why not, may I ask?" said Curtis, with a feeling of uneasiness
for which he could not account.

"Why not? Because, in that case, I should seek an interview with your
uncle, and tell him----"

"What?"

"That his son still lives; and that I can restore him to his----"

The face of Curtis Waring blanched; he staggered as if he had been
struck; and he cried out, hoarsely:

"It is a lie!"

"It is the truth, begging your pardon. Do you mind my smoking?" and he
coolly produced a common clay pipe, filled and lighted it.

"Who are you?" asked Curtis, scanning the man's features with painful
anxiety.

"Have you forgotten Tim Bolton?"

"Are you Tim Bolton?" faltered Curtis.

"Yes; but you don't seem glad to see me?"

"I thought you were----"

"In Australia. So I was three years since. Then I got homesick, and
came back to New York."

"You have been here three years?"

"Yes," chuckled Bolton. "You didn't suspect it, did you?"

"Where?" asked Curtis, in a hollow voice.

"I keep a saloon on the Bowery. There's my card. Call around when
convenient."

Curtis was about to throw the card into the grate, but on second
thought dropped it into his pocket.

"And the boy?" he asked, slowly.

"Is alive and well. He hasn't been starved. Though I dare say you
wouldn't have grieved if he had."

"And he is actually in this city?"

"Just so."

"Does he know anything of--you know what I mean."

"He doesn't know that he is the son of a rich man, and heir to the
property which you look upon as yours. That's what you mean, isn't
it?"

"Yes. What is he doing? Is he at work?"

"He helps me some in the saloon, sells papers in the evenings, and
makes himself generally useful."

"Has he any education?"

"Well, I haven't sent him to boarding school or college," answered
Tim. "He don't know no Greek, or Latin, or mathematics--phew, that's a
hard word. You didn't tell me you wanted him made a scholar of."

"I didn't. I wanted never to see or hear from him again. What made you
bring him back to New York?"

"Couldn't keep away, governor. I got homesick, I did. There ain't but
one Bowery in the world, and I hankered after that----"

"Didn't I pay you money to keep away, Tim Bolton?"

"I don't deny it; but what's three thousand dollars? Why, the kid's
cost me more than that. I've had the care of him for fourteen years,
and it's only about two hundred a year."

"You have broken your promise to me!" said Curtis, sternly.

"There's worse things than breaking your promise," retorted Bolton.

Scarcely had he spoken than a change came over his face, and he stared
open-mouthed behind him and beyond Curtis.

Startled himself, Curtis turned, and saw, with a feeling akin to
dismay, the tall figure of his uncle standing on the threshold of the
left portal, clad in a morning gown, with his eyes fixed inquiringly
upon Bolton and himself.




Chapter III.
An Unholy Compact.


"Who is that man, Curtis?" asked John Linden, pointing his thin finger
at Tim Bolton, who looked strangely out of place, as, with clay pipe,
he sat in the luxurious library on a sumptuous chair.

"That man?" stammered Curtis, quite at a loss what to say.

"Yes."

"He is a poor man out of luck, who has applied to me for assistance,"
answered Curtis, recovering his wits.

"That's it, governor," said Bolton, thinking it necessary to confirm
the statement. "I've got five small children at home almost starvin',
your honor."

"That is sad. What is your business, my man?"

It was Bolton's turn to be embarrassed.

"My business?" he repeated.

"That is what I said."

"I'm a blacksmith, but I'm willing to do any honest work."

"That is commendable; but don't you know that it is very ill-bred to
smoke a pipe in a gentleman's house?"

"Excuse me, governor!"

And Bolton extinguished his pipe, and put it away in a pocket of his
corduroy coat.

"I was just telling him the same thing," said Curtis. "Don't trouble
yourself any further, uncle. I will inquire into the man's
circumstances, and help him if I can."

"Very well, Curtis. I came down because I thought I heard voices."

John Linden slowly returned to his chamber, and left the two alone.

"The governor's getting old," said Bolton. "When I was butler here,
fifteen years ago, he looked like a young man. He didn't suspect that
he had ever seen me before."

"Nor that you had carried away his son, Bolton."

"Who hired me to do it? Who put me up to the job, as far as that
goes?"

"Hush! Walls have ears. Let us return to business."

"That suits me."

"Look here, Tim Bolton," said Curtis, drawing up a chair, and lowering
his voice to a confidential pitch, "you say you want money?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, I don't give money for nothing."

"I know that. What's wanted now?"

"You say the boy is alive?"

"He's very much alive."

"Is there any necessity for his living?" asked Curtis, in a sharp,
hissing tone, fixing his eyes searchingly on Bolton, to see how his
hint would be taken.

"You mean that you want me to murder him?" said Bolton, quickly.

"Why not? You don't look over scrupulous."

"I am a bad man, I admit it," said Bolton, with a gesture of
repugnance, "a thief, a low blackguard, perhaps, but, thank Heaven! I
am no murderer! And if I was, I wouldn't spill a drop of that boy's
blood for the fortune that is his by right."

"I didn't give you credit for so much sentiment, Bolton," said Curtis,
with a sneer. "You don't look like it, but appearances are deceitful.
We'll drop the subject. You can serve me in another way. Can you open
this secretary?"

"Yes; that's in my line."

"There is a paper in it that I want. It is my uncle's will. I have a
curiosity to read it."

"I understand. Well, I'm agreeable."

"If you find any money or valuables, you are welcome to them. I only
want the paper. When will you make the attempt?"

"To-morrow night. When will it be safe?"

"At eleven o'clock. We all retire early in this house. Can you force
an entrance?"

"Yes; but it will be better for you to leave the outer door unlocked."

"I have a better plan. Here is my latchkey."

"Good! I may not do the job myself, but I will see that it is done.
How shall I know the will?"

"It is in a big envelope, tied with a narrow tape. Probably it is
inscribed: 'My will.'"

"Suppose I succeed, when shall I see you?"

"I will come around to your place on the Bowery. Good-night!"

Curtis Waring saw Bolton to the door, and let him out. Returning, he
flung himself on a sofa.

"I can make that man useful!" he reflected. "There is an element of
danger in the boy's presence in New York; but it will go hard if I
can't get rid of him! Tim Bolton is unexpectedly squeamish, but there
are others to whom I can apply. With gold everything is possible. It's
time matters came to a finish. My uncle's health is rapidly failing--
the doctor hints that he has heart disease--and the fortune for which
I have been waiting so long will soon be mine, if I work my cards
right. I can't afford to make any mistakes now."




Chapter IV.
Florence.


Florence Linden sat in the library the following evening in an
attitude of depression. Her eyelids were swollen, and it was evident
she had been weeping. During the day she had had an interview with her
uncle, in which he harshly insisted upon her yielding to his wishes,
and marrying her cousin, Curtis.

"But, uncle," she objected, "I do not love him."

"Marry him, and love will come."

"Never!" she said, vehemently.

"You speak confidently, miss," said Mr. Linden, with irritation.

"Listen, Uncle John. It is not alone that I do not love him. I dislike
him--I loathe--him."

"Nonsense! that is a young girl's extravagant nonsense."

"No, uncle."

"There can be no reason for such a foolish dislike. What can you have
against him?"

"It is impressed upon me, uncle, that Curtis is a bad man. There is
something false--treacherous--about him."

"Pooh! child! you are more foolish than I thought. I don't say Curtis
is an angel. No man is; at least, I never met any such. But he is no
worse than the generality of men. In marrying him you will carry out
my cherished wish. Florence, I have not long to live. I shall be glad
to see you well established in life before I leave you. As the wife of
Curtis you will have a recognized position. You will go on living in
this house, and the old home will be maintained."

"But why is it necessary for me to marry at all, Uncle John?"

"You will be sure to marry some one. Should I divide my fortune
between you and Curtis, you would become the prey of some unscrupulous
fortune hunter."

"Better that than become the wife of Curtis Waring----"

"I see, you are incorrigible," said her uncle, angrily. "Do you refuse
obedience to my wishes?"

"Command me in anything else, Uncle John, and I will obey," pleaded
Florence.

"Indeed! You only thwart me in my cherished wish, but are willing to
obey me in unimportant matters. You forget the debt you owe me."

"I forget nothing, dear uncle. I do not forget that, when I was a poor
little child, helpless and destitute, you took me in your arms, gave
me a home, and have cared for me from that time to this as only a
parent could."

"You remember that, then?"

"Yes, uncle. I hope you will not consider me wholly ungrateful."

"It only makes matters worse. You own your obligations, yet refuse to
make the only return I desire. You refuse to comfort me in the closing
days of my life by marrying your cousin."

"Because that so nearly concerns my happiness that no one has a right
to ask me to sacrifice all I hold dear."

"I see you are incorrigible," said John Linden, stormily. "Do you know
what will be the consequences?"

"I am prepared for all."

"Then listen! If you persist in balking me, I shall leave the entire
estate to Curtis."

"Do with your money as you will, uncle. I have no claim to more than I
have received."

"You are right there; but that is not all."

Florence fixed upon him a mute look of inquiry.

"I will give you twenty-four hours more to come to your senses. Then,
if you persist in your ingratitude and disobedience, you must find
another home."

"Oh, uncle, you do not mean that?" exclaimed Florence, deeply moved.

"I do mean it, and I shall not allow your tears to move me. Not
another word, for I will not hear it. Take twenty-four hours to think
over what I have said."

Florence bowed her head on her hands, and gave herself up to sorrowful
thoughts. But she was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who
announced:

"Mr. Percy de Brabazon."

An effeminate-looking young man, foppishly dressed, followed the
servant into the room, and made it impossible for Florence to deny
herself, as she wished to do.

"I hope I see you well, Miss Florence," he simpered.

"Thank you, Mr. de Brabazon," said Florence, coldly. "I have a slight
headache."

"I am awfully sorry, I am, upon my word, Miss Florence. My doctor
tells me it is only those whose bwains are vewy active that are
troubled with headaches."

"Then, I presume, Mr. de Brabazon," said Florence, with intentional
sarcasm, "that you never have a headache."

"Weally, Miss Florence, that is vewy clevah. You will have your joke."

"It was no joke, I assure you, Mr. de Brabazon."

"I--I thought it might be. Didn't I see you at the opewa last
evening?"

"Possibly. I was there."

"I often go to the opewa. It's so--so fashionable, don't you know?"

"Then you don't go to hear the music?"

"Oh, of course, but one can't always be listening to the music, don't
you know. I had a fwiend with me last evening--an Englishman--a
charming fellow, I assure you. He's the second cousin of a lord, and
yet--you'll hardly credit it--we're weally vewy intimate. He tells me,
Miss Florence, that I'm the perfect image of his cousin, Lord Fitz
Noodle."

"I am not at all surprised."

"Weally, you are vewy kind, Miss Florence. I thought it a great
compliment. I don't know how it is, but evewybody takes me for an
Englishman. Strange, isn't it?"

"I am very glad."

"May I ask why, Miss Florence?"

"Because---- Well, perhaps I had better not explain. It seems to give
you pleasure. You would, probably, prefer to be an Englishman."

"I admit that I have a great admiration for the English character.
It's a gweat pity we have no lords in America. Now, if you would only
allow me to bring my English fwiend here----

"I don't care to make any new acquaintances. Even if I did, I prefer
my own countrymen. Don't you like America, Mr. de Brabazon?"

"Oh, of courth, if we only had some lords here."

"We have plenty of flunkeys."

"That's awfully clevah, 'pon my word."

"Is it? I am afraid you are too complimentary. You are very
good-natured."

"I always feel good-natured in your company, Miss Florence. I--wish I
could always be with you."

"Really! Wouldn't that be a trifle monotonous?" asked Florence,
sarcastically.

"Not if we were married," said Percy, boldly breaking the ice.

"What do you mean, Mr. de Brabazon?"

"I hope you will excuse me, Miss Florence--Miss Linden, I mean; but
I'm awfully in love with you, and have been ever so long--but I never
dared to tell you so. I felt so nervous, don't you know? Will you
marry me? I'll be awfully obliged if you will."

Mr. de Brabazon rather awkwardly slipped from his chair, and sank on
one knee before Florence.

"Please arise, Mr. de Brabazon," said Florence, hurriedly. "It is
quite out of the question--what you ask--I assure you."

"Ah! I see how it is," said Percy, clasping his hands sadly. "You love
another."

"Not that I am aware of."

"Then I may still hope?"

"I cannot encourage you, Mr. de Brabazon. My heart is free, but it can
never be yours."

"Then," said Percy, gloomily, "there is only one thing for me to do."

"What is that?"

"I shall go to the Bwooklyn Bwidge, climb to the parapet, jump into
the water, and end my misewable life."

"You had better think twice before adopting such a desperate
resolution, Mr. de Brabazon. You will meet others who will be kinder
to you than I have been----"

"I can never love another. My heart is broken. Farewell, cruel girl.
When you read the papers tomorrow morning, think of the unhappy Percy
de Brabazon!"

Mr. de Brabazon folded his arms gloomily, and stalked out of the room.

"If my position were not so sad, I should be tempted to smile," said
Florence. "Mr. de Brabazon will not do this thing. His emotions are as
strong as those of a butterfly."

After a brief pause Florence seated herself at the table, and drew
toward her writing materials.

"It is I whose heart should be broken!" she murmured; "I who am driven
from the only home I have ever known. What can have turned against me
my uncle, usually so kind and considerate? It must be that Curtis has
exerted a baneful influence upon him. I cannot leave him without one
word of farewell."

She took up a sheet of paper, and wrote, rapidly:

    "Dear Uncle: You have told me to leave your house, and I
    obey. I cannot tell you how sad I feel, when I reflect that I
    have lost your love, and must go forth among strangers--I
    know not where. I was but a little girl when you gave me a
    home. I have grown up in an atmosphere of love, and I have
    felt very grateful to you for all you have done for me. I
    have tried to conform to your wishes, and I would obey you in
    all else--but I cannot marry Curtis; I think I would rather
    die. Let me still live with you as I have done. I do not care
    for any part of your money--leave it all to him, if you think
    best--but give me back my place in your heart. You are angry
    now, but you will some time pity and forgive your poor
    Florence, who will never cease to bless and pray for you.
    Good-bye!

                                                 "Florence."

She was about to sign herself Florence Linden, but reflected that she
was no longer entitled to use a name which would seem to carry with it
a claim upon her uncle.

The tears fell upon the paper as she was writing, but she heeded them
not. It was the saddest hour of her life. Hitherto she had been
shielded from all sorrow, and secure in the affection of her uncle,
had never dreamed that there would come a time when she would feel
obliged to leave all behind her, and go out into the world, friendless
and penniless, but poorest of all in the loss of that love which she
had hitherto enjoyed.

After completing the note, Florence let her head fall upon the table,
and sobbed herself to sleep.

An hour and a half passed, the servant looked in, but noticing that
her mistress was sleeping, contented herself with lowering the gas,
but refrained from waking her.

And so she slept on till the French clock upon the mantle struck
eleven.

Five minutes later and the door of the room slowly opened, and a boy
entered on tiptoe. He was roughly dressed. His figure was manly and
vigorous, and despite his stealthy step and suspicious movements his
face was prepossessing.

He started when he saw Florence.

"What, a sleeping gal!" he said to himself. "Tim told me I'd find the
coast clear, but I guess she's sound asleep, and won't hear nothing. I
don't half like this job, but I've got to do as Tim told me. He says
he's my father, so I s'pose it's all right. All the same, I shall be
nabbed some day, and then the family'll be disgraced. It's a queer
life I've led ever since I can remember. Sometimes I feel like leaving
Tim, and settin' up for myself. I wonder how 'twould seem to be
respectable."

The boy approached the secretary, and with some tools he had brought
essayed to open it. After a brief delay he succeeded, and lifted the
cover. He was about to explore it, according to Tim's directions, when
he heard a cry of fear, and turning swiftly saw Florence, her eyes
dilated with terror, gazing at him.

"Who are you?" she asked in alarm, "and what are you doing there?"




Chapter V.
Dodger.


The boy sprang to the side of Florence, and siezed her wrists in his
strong young grasp.

"Don't you alarm the house," he said, "or I'll----"

"What will you do?" gasped Florence, in alarm. The boy was evidently
softened by her beauty, and answered in a tone of hesitation:

"I don't know. I won't harm you if you keep quiet."

"What are you here for?" asked Florence, fixing her eyes on the boy's
face; "are you a thief?"

"I don't know--yes, I suppose I am."

"How sad, when you are so young."

"What! miss, do you pity me?"

"Yes, my poor boy, you must be very poor, or you wouldn't bring
yourself to steal."

"No. I ain't poor; leastways, I have enough to eat, and I have a place
to sleep."

"Then why don't you earn your living by honest means?"

"I can't; I must obey orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Why, the guv'nor's, to be sure."

"Did he tell you to open that secretary?"

"Yes."

"Who is the guv'nor, as you call him?"

"I can't tell; it wouldn't be square."

"He must be a very wicked man."

"Well, he ain't exactly what you call an angel, but I've seen wuss men
than the guv'nor."

"Do you mind telling me your own name?"

"No; for I know you won't peach on me. Tom Dodger."

"Dodger?"

"Yes."

"That isn't a surname."

"It's all I've got. That's what I'm always called."

"It is very singular," said Florence, fixing a glance of mingled
curiosity and perplexity upon the young visitor.

While the two were earnestly conversing in that subdued light,
afforded by the lowered gaslight, Tim Bolton crept in through the door
unobserved by either, tiptoed across the room to the secretary,
snatched the will and a roll of bills, and escaped without attracting
attention.

"Oh, I wish I could persuade you to give up this bad life," resumed
Florence, earnestly, "and become honest."

"Do you really care what becomes of me, miss?" asked Dodger, slowly.

"I do, indeed."

"That's very kind of you, miss; but I don't understand it. You are a
rich young lady, and I'm only a poor boy, livin' in a Bowery dive."

"What's that?"

"Never mind, miss, such as you wouldn't understand. Why, all my life
I've lived with thieves, and drunkards, and bunco men, and----"

"But I'm sure you don't like it. You are fit for something better."

"Do you really think so?" asked Dodger, doubtfullly.

"Yes; you have a good face. You were meant to be good and honest, I am
sure."

"Would you trust me?" asked the boy, earnestly, fixing his large, dark
eyes eloquently on the face of Florence.

"Yes, I would if you would only leave your evil companions, and become
true to your better nature."

"No one ever spoke to me like that before, miss," said Dodger, his
expressive features showing that he was strongly moved. "You think I
could be good if I tried hard, and grow up respectable?"

"I am sure you could," said Florence, confidently.

There was something in this boy, young outlaw though he was, that
moved her powerfully, and even fascinated her, though she hardly
realized it. It was something more than a feeling of compassion for a
wayward and misguided youth.

"I could if I was rich like you, and lived in a nice house, and
'sociated with swells. If you had a father like mine----"

"Is he a bad man?"

"Well, he don't belong to the church. He keeps a gin mill, and has
ever since I was a kid."

"Have you always lived with him?"

"Yes, but not in New York."

"Where then?"

"In Melbourne."

"That's in Australia."

"Yes, miss."

"How long since you came to New York?"

"I guess it's about three years."

"And you have always had this man as a guardian? Poor boy!"

"You've got a different father from me, miss?"

Tears forced themselves to the eyes of Florence, as this remark
brought forcibly to her mind the position in which she was placed.

"Alas!" she answered, impulsively, "I am alone in the world!"

"What! ain't the old gentleman that lives here your father?"

"He is my uncle; but he is very, very angry with me, and has this very
day ordered me to leave the house."

"Why, what a cantankerous old ruffian he is, to be sure!" exclaimed
the boy, indignantly.

"Hush! you must not talk against my uncle. He has always been kind to
me till now."

"Why, what's up? What's the old gentleman mad about?"

"He wants me to marry my cousin Curtis--a man I do not even like."

"That's a shame! Is it the dude I saw come out of the house a little
while ago?"

"Oh, no; that's a different gentleman. It's Mr. de Brabazon."

"You don't want to marry him, do you?"

"No, no!"

"I'm glad of that. He don't look as if he knew enough to come in when
it rained."

"The poor young man is not very brilliant, but I think I would rather
marry him than Curtis Waring."

"I've seen him, too. He's got dark hair and a dark complexion, and a
wicked look in his eye."

"You, too, have noticed that?"

"I've seen such as him before. He's a bad man."

"Do you know anything about him?" asked Florence, eagerly.

"Only his looks."

"I am not deceived," murmured Florence, "it's not wholly prejudice.
The boy distrusts him, too. So you see, Dodger," she added, aloud, "I
am not a rich young lady, as you suppose. I must leave this house, and
work for my living. I have no home any more."

"If you have no home," said Dodger, impulsively, "come home with me."

"To the home you have described, my poor boy? How could I do that?"

"No; I will hire a room for you in a quiet street, and you shall be my
sister. I will work for you, and give you my money."

"You are kind, and I am glad to think I have found a friend when I
need one most. But I could not accept stolen money. It would be as bad
as if I, too, were a thief."

"I am not a thief! That is, I won't be any more."

"And you will give up your plan of robbing my uncle?"

"Yes, I will; though I don't know what my guv'nor will say. He'll half
murder me, I expect. He'll be sure to cut up rough."

"Do right, Dodger, whatever happens. Promise me that you will never
steal again?"

"There's my hand, miss--I promise. Nobody ever talked to me like you.
I never thought much about bein' respectable, and growin' up to be
somebody, but if you take an interest in me, I'll try hard to do
right."

At this moment, Mr. Linden, clad in a long morning gown, and holding a
candle in his hand, entered the room, and started in astonishment when
he saw Florence clasping the hand of one whose appearance led him to
stamp as a young rough.

"Shameless girl!" he exclaimed, in stern reproof. "So this is the
company you keep when you think I am out of the way!"




Chapter VI.
A Tempest.


The charge was so strange and unexpected that Florence was
overwhelmed. She could only murmur:

"Oh, uncle!"

Her young companion was indignant. Already he felt that Florence had
consented to accept him as a friend, and he was resolved to stand by
her.

"I say, old man," he bristled up, "don't you go to insult her! She's
an angel!"

"No doubt you think so," rejoined Mr. Linden, in a tone of sarcasm.
"Upon my word, miss, I congratulate you on your elevated taste. So
this is your reason for not being willing to marry your Cousin
Curtis?"

"Indeed, uncle, you are mistaken. I never met this boy till to-night."

"Don't try to deceive me. Young man, did you open my secretary?"

"Yes, sir."

"And robbed it into the bargain," continued Linden, going to the
secretary, and examining it. He did not, however, miss the will, but
only the roll of bills. "Give me back the money you have taken from
me, you young rascal!"

"I took nothing, sir."

"It's a lie! The money is gone, and no one else could have taken it."

"I don't allow no one to call me a liar. Just take that back, old man,
or I----"

"Indeed, uncle, he took nothing, for he had only just opened the
secretary when I woke up and spoke to him."

"You stand by him, of course, shameless girl! I blush to think that
you are my niece. I am glad to think that my eyes are opened before it
is too late."

The old merchant rang the bell violently, and aroused the house.
Dodger made no attempt to escape, but stood beside Florence in the
attitude of a protector. But a short time elapsed before Curtis Waring
and the servants entered the room, and gazed with wonder at the
_tableau_ presented by the excited old man and the two young people.

"My friends," said John Linden, in a tone of excitement, "I call you
to witness that this girl, whom I blush to acknowledge as my niece,
has proved herself unworthy of my kindness. In your presence I cut her
off, and bid her never again darken my door."

"But what has she done, uncle?" asked Curtis. He was prepared for the
presence of Dodger, whom he rightly concluded to be the agent of Tim
Bolton, but he could not understand why Florence should be in the
library at this late hour. Nor was he able to understand the evidently
friendly relations between her and the young visitor.

"What has she done?" repeated John Linden. "She has introduced that
young ruffian into the house to rob me. Look at that secretary! He has
forced it open, and stolen a large sum of money."

"It is not true, sir," said Dodger, calmly, "about taking the money, I
mean. I haven't taken a cent."

"Then why did you open the secretary?"

"I did mean to take money, but she stopped me."

"Oh, she stopped you?" repeated Linden, with withering sarcasm. "Then,
perhaps, you will tell me where the money is gone?"

"He hasn't discovered about the will," thought Curtis, congratulating
himself; "if the boy has it, I must manage to give him a chance to
escape."

"You can search me if you want to," continued Dodger, proudly. "You
won't find no money on me."

"Do you think I am a fool, you young burglar?" exclaimed John Linden,
angrily.

"Uncle, let me speak to the boy," said Curtis, soothingly. "I think he
will tell me."

"As you like, Curtis; but I am convinced that he is a thief."

Curtis Waring beckoned Dodger into an adjoining room.

"Now, my boy," he said, smoothly, "give me what you took from the
secretary, and I will see that you are not arrested."

"But, sir, I didn't take nothing--it's just as I told the old duffer.
The girl waked up just as I'd got the secretary open, and I didn't
have a chance."

"But the money is gone," said Curtis, in an incredulous tone.

"I don't know nothing about that."

"Come, you'd better examine your pockets. In the hurry of the moment
you may have taken it without knowing it."

"No, I couldn't."

"Didn't you take a paper of any kind?" asked Curtis, eagerly.
"Sometimes papers are of more value than money."

"No, I didn't take no paper, though Tim told me to."

Curtis quietly ignored the allusion to Tim, for it did not suit his
purpose to get Tim into trouble. His unscrupulous agent knew too much
that would compromise his principal.

"Are you willing that I should examine you?"

"Yes, I am. Go ahead."

Curtis thrust his hand into the pockets of the boy, who, boy as he
was, was as tall as himself, but was not repaid by the discovery of
anything. He was very much perplexed.

"Didn't you throw the articles on the floor?" he demanded,
suspiciously.

"No, I didn't."

"You didn't give them to the young lady?"

"No; if I had she'd have said so."

"Humph! this is strange. What is your name?"

"Dodger."

"That's a queer name; have you no other?"

"Not as I know of."

"With whom do you live?"

"With my father. Leastways, he says he's my father."

There was a growing suspicion in the mind of Curtis Waring. He scanned
the boy's features with attention. Could this ill-dressed boy--a
street boy in appearance--be his long-lost and deeply wronged cousin?

"Who is it that says he is your father?" he demanded, abruptly.

"Do you want to get him into trouble?"

"No, I don't want to get him into trouble, or you either. Better tell
me all, and I will be your friend."

"You're a better sort than I thought at first," said Dodger. "The man
I live with is called Tim Bolton."

"I though so," quickly ejaculated Curtis. He had scarcely got out the
words before he was sensible that he had made a mistake.

"What! do you know Tim?" inquired Dodger, in surprise.

"I mean," replied Curtis, lamely, "that I have heard of this man
Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"I thought you would be living with some such man. Did he come to the
house with you tonight?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

"He stayed outside."

"Perhaps he is there now."

"Don't you go to having him arrested," said Dodger, suspiciously.

"I will keep my promise. Are you sure you didn't pass out the paper
and the money to him? Think now."

"No, I didn't. I didn't have a chance. When I came into the room
yonder I saw the gal asleep, and I thought she wouldn't hear me, but
when I got the desk open she spoke to me, and asked me what I was
doin'."

"And you took nothing?"

"No."

"It seems very strange. I cannot understand it. Yet my uncle says the
money is gone. Did anyone else enter the room while you were talking
with Miss Linden?"

"I didn't see any one."

"What were you talking about?"

"She said the old man wanted her to marry you, and she didn't want
to."

"She told you that?" exclaimed Curtis, in displeasure.

"Yes, she did. She said she'd rather marry the dude that was here
early this evenin'."

"Mr. de Brabazon!"

"Yes, that's the name."

"Upon my word, she was very confidential. You are a queer person for
her to select as a confidant."

"Maybe so, sir; but she knows I'm her friend."

"You like the young lady, then? Perhaps you would like to marry her
yourself?"

"As if she'd take any notice of a poor boy like me. I told her if her
uncle sent her away, I'd take care of her and be a brother to her."

"How would Mr. Tim Bolton--that's his name, isn't it?--like that?"

"I wouldn't take her to where he lives."

"I think, myself, it would hardly be a suitable home for a young lady
brought up on Madison Avenue. There is certainly no accounting for
tastes. Miss Florence----"

"That's her name, is it?"

"Yes; didn't she tell you?"

"No; but it's a nice name."

"She declines my hand, and accepts your protection. It will certainly
be a proud distinction to become Mrs. Dodger."

"Don't laugh at her!" said Dodger, suspiciously.

"I don't propose to. But I think we may as well return to the
library."

"Well," said Mr. Linden, as his nephew returned with Dodger.

"I have examined the boy, and found nothing on his person," said
Curtis; "I confess I am puzzled. He appears to have a high admiration
for Florence----"

"As I supposed."

"She has even confided to him her dislike for me, and he has offered
her his protection."

"Is this so, miss?" demanded Mr. Linden, sternly.

"Yes, uncle," faltered Florence.

"Then you can join the young person you have selected whenever you
please. For your sake I will not have him arrested for attempted
burglary. He is welcome to what he has taken, since he is likely to
marry into the family. You may stay here to-night, and he can call for
you in the morning."

John Linden closed the secretary, and left the room, leaving Florence
sobbing. The servants, too, retired, and Curtis was left alone with
her.

"Florence," he said, "accept my hand, and I will reconcile my uncle to
you. Say but the word, and----"

"I can never speak it, Curtis! I will take my uncle at his word.
Dodger, call for me to-morrow at eight, and I will accept your
friendly services in finding me a new home."

"I'll be on hand, miss. Good-night!"

"Be it so, obstinate girl!" said Curtis, angrily. "The time will come
when you will bitterly repent your mad decision."




Chapter VII.
Florence Leaves Home.


Florence passed a sleepless night. It had come upon her so suddenly,
this expulsion from the home of her childhood, that she could not
fully realize it. She could not feel that she was taking her last look
at the familiar room, and well-remembered dining-room, where she had
sat down for the last time for breakfast. She was alone at the
breakfast table, for the usual hour was half-past eight, and she had
appointed Dodger to call for her at eight.

"Is it true, Miss Florence, that you're going away?" asked Jane, the
warm-hearted table girl, as she waited upon Florence.

"Yes, Jane," answered Florence, sadly.

"It's a shame, so it is! I didn't think your uncle would be so
hard-hearted."

"He is disappointed because I won't marry my Cousin Curtis."

"I don't blame you for it, miss. I never liked Mr. Waring. He isn't
half good enough for you."

"I say nothing about that, Jane; but I will not marry a man I do not
love."

"Nor would I, miss. Where are you going, if I may make so bold?"

"I don't know, Jane," said Florence, despondently.

"But you can't walk about the streets."

"A trusty friend is going to call for me at eight o'clock; when he
comes admit him."

"It is a--a young gentleman?"

"You wouldn't call him such. He is a boy, a poor boy; but I think he
is a true friend. He says he will find me a comfortable room
somewhere, where I can settle down and look for work."

"Are you going to work for a living, Miss Florence?" asked Jane,
horrified.

"I must, Jane."

"It's a great shame--you, a lady born."

"No, Jane, I do not look upon it in that light. I shall be happier for
having my mind and my hands occupied."

"What work will you do?"

"I don't know yet. Dodger will advise me."

"Who, miss?"

"Dodger."

"Who is he?"

"It's the boy I spoke of."

"Shure, he's got a quare name."

"Yes; but names don't count for much. It's the heart I think of, and
this boy has a kind heart."

"Have you known him long?"

"I saw him yesterday for the first time."

"Is it the young fellow who was here last night?"

"Yes."

"He isn't fit company for the likes of you, Miss Florence."

"You forget, Jane, that I am no longer a rich young lady. I am poorer
than even you. This Dodger is kind, and I feel that I can trust him."

"If you are poor, Miss Florence," said Jane, hesitatingly, "would you
mind borrowing some money of me? I've got ten dollars upstairs in my
trunk, and I don't need it at all. It's proud I'll be to lend it to
you."

"Thank you, Jane," said Florence, gratefully. "I thought I had but one
friend. I find I have two----"

"Then you'll take the money? I'll go right up and get it."

"No, Jane; not at present. I have twenty dollars in my purse, and it
will last me till I can earn more."

"But, miss, twenty dollars will soon go," said Jane, disappointed.

"If I find that I need the sum you so kindly offer me, I will let you
know, I promise that."

"Thank you, miss."

At this point a bell rang from above.

"It's from Mr. Curtis' room," said Jane.

"Go and see what he wants."

Jane returned in a brief time with a note in her hand.

"Mr. Curtis asked me if you were still here," she explained, "and when
I told him you were he asked me to give you this."

Florence took the note, and, opening it, read these lines:

    "Florence: Now that you have had time to think over your plan
    of leaving your old home, I hope you have come to see how
    foolish it is. Reflect that, if carried out, a life of
    poverty and squalid wretchedness amid homely and uncongenial
    surroundings awaits you; while, as my wife, you will live a
    life of luxury and high social position. There are many young
    ladies who would be glad to accept the chance which you so
    recklessly reject. By accepting my hand you will gratify our
    excellent uncle, and make me the happiest of mortals. You
    will acquit me of mercenary motives, since you are now
    penniless, and your disobedience leaves me sole heir to Uncle
    John. I love you, and it will be my chief object, if you will
    permit it, to make you happy.

                                                 "Curtis Waring."

Florence ran her eyes rapidly over this note, but her heart did not
respond, and her resolution was not shaken.

"Tell Mr. Waring there is no answer, Jane, if he inquires," she said.

"Was he tryin' to wheedle you into marryin' him?" asked Jane.

"He wished me to change my decision."

"I'm glad you've given him the bounce," said Jane, whose expressions
were not always refined. "I wouldn't marry him myself."

Florence smiled. Jane was red haired, and her nose was what is
euphemistically called _retrousse_. Even in her own circles she was
not regarded as beautiful, and was hardly likely to lead a rich man to
overlook her humble station, and sue for her hand.

"Then, Jane, you at least will not blame me for refusing my cousin's
hand?"

"That I won't, miss. Do you know, Miss Florence"--and here Jane
lowered her voice--"I've a suspicion that Mr. Curtis is married
already?"

"What do you mean, Jane?" asked Florence, startled.

"There was a poor young woman called here last month and inquired for
Mr. Curtis. She was very sorrowful-like, and poorly dressed. He came
up when she was at the door, and he spoke harshlike, and told her to
walk away with him. What they said I couldn't hear, but I've a
suspicion that she was married to him, secretlike for I saw a wedding
ring upon her finger."

"But, Jane, it would be base and infamous for him to ask for my hand
when he was already married."

"I can't help it, miss. That's just what he wouldn't mind doin'. Oh,
he's a sly deceiver, Mr. Curtis. I'd like to see him foolin' around
me."

Jane nodded her head with emphasis, as if to intimate the kind of
reception Curtis Waring would get if he attempted to trifle with her
virgin affections.

"I hope what you suspect is not true," said Florence, gravely. "I do
not like or respect Curtis, but I don't like to think he would be so
base as that. If you ever see this young woman again, try to find out
where she lives. I would like to make her acquaintance, and be a
friend to her if she needs one."

"Shure, Miss Florence, you will be needin' a friend yourself."

"It is true, Jane. I forgot that I am no longer a young lady of
fortune, but a penniless girl, obliged to work for a living."

"What would your uncle say if he knew that Mr. Curtis had a wife?"

"We don't know that he has one, and till we do, it would not be
honorable to intimate such a thing to Uncle John."

"Shure, he wouldn't be particular. It's all his fault that you're
obliged to leave home, and go into the streets. Why couldn't he take
no for an answer, and marry somebody else, if he can find anybody to
have him?"

"I wish, indeed, that he had fixed his affections elsewhere,"
responded Florence, with a sigh.

"Shure, he's twice as old as you, Miss Florence, anyway."

"I shouldn't mind that so much, if that was the only objection."

"It'll be a great deal better marryin' a young man."

"I don't care to marry any one, Jane. I don't think I shall ever
marry."

"It's all very well to say that, Miss Florence. Lots of girls say so,
but they change their minds. I don't mean to live out always myself."

"Is there any young man you are interested in, Jane?"

"Maybe there is, and maybe there isn't, Miss Florence. If I ever do
get married I'll invite you to the wedding."

"And I'll promise to come if I can. But I hear the bell. I think my
friend Dodger has come."

"Shall I ask him in, miss?"

"No. Tell him I will be ready to accompany him at once."

She went out into the hall, and when the door was opened the visitor
proved to be Dodger. He had improved his appearance so far as his
limited means would allow. His hands and face were thoroughly clean;
he had bought a new collar and necktie; his shoes were polished, and
despite his shabby suit, he looked quite respectable. Getting a full
view of him, Florence saw that his face was frank and handsome, his
eyes bright, and his teeth like pearls.

"Shure, he's a great deal better lookin' than Mr. Curtis," whispered
Jane. "Here, Mr. Dodger, take Miss Florence's valise, and mind you
take good care of her."

"I will," answered Dodger, heartily. "Come, Miss Florence, if you
don't mind walking over to Fourth Avenue, we'll take the horse cars."

So, under strange guidance, Florence Linden left her luxurious home,
knowing not what awaited her. What haven of refuge she might find she
knew not. She, like Dodger, was adrift in New York.




Chapter VIII.
A Friendly Compact.


Florence, as she stepped on the sidewalk, turned, and fixed a last sad
look on the house that had been her home for so many years. She had
never anticipated such a sundering of home ties, and even now she
found it difficult to realize that the moment had come when her life
was to be rent in twain, and the sunlight of prosperity was to be
darkened and obscured by a gloomy and uncertain future.

She had hastily packed a few indispensable articles in a valise which
she carried in her hand.

"Let me take your bag, Miss Florence," said Dodger, reaching out his
hand.

"I don't want to trouble you, Dodger."

"It ain't no trouble, Miss Florence. I'm stronger than you, and it
looks better for me to carry it."

"You are very kind, Dodger. What would I do without you?"

"There's plenty that would be glad of the chance of helping you," said
Dodger, with a glance of admiration at the fair face of his companion.

"I don't know where to find them," said Florence, sadly. "Even my
uncle has turned against me."

"He's an old chump!" ejaculated Dodger, in a tone of disgust.

"Hush! I cannot hear a word against him. He has always been kind and
considerate till now. It is the evil influence of my Cousin Curtis
that has turned him against me. When he comes to himself I am sure he
will regret his cruelty."

"He would take you back if you would marry your cousin."

"Yes; but that I will never do!" exclaimed Florence, with energy.

"Bully for you!" said Dodger. "Excuse me," he said, apologetically. "I
ain't used to talkin' to young ladies, and perhaps that ain't proper
for me to say."

"I don't mind, Dodger; your heart is in the right place."

"Thank you, Miss Florence. I'm glad you've got confidence in me. I'll
try to deserve it."

"Where are we going?" asked the young lady, whose only thought up to
this moment had been to get away from the presence of Curtis and his
persecutions.

They had now reached Fourth Avenue, and a surface car was close at
hand.

"We're going to get aboard that car," said Dodger, signaling with his
free hand. "I'll tell you more when we're inside."

Florence entered the car, and Dodger, following, took a seat at her
side.

They presented a noticeable contrast, for Florence was dressed as
beseemed her station, while Dodger, in spite of his manly, attractive
face, was roughly attired, and looked like a working boy.

When the conductor came along, he drew out a dime, and tendered it in
payment of the double fare. The money was in the conductor's hand
before Florence was fully aware.

"You must not pay for me, Dodger," she said.

"Why not?" asked the boy. "Ain't we friends?"

"Yes, but you have no money to spare. Here, let me return the money."

And she offered him a dime from her own purse.

"You can pay next time, Miss Florence. It's all right. Now, I'll tell
you where we are goin'. A friend of mine, Mrs. O'Keefe, has a lodgin'
house, just off the Bowery. I saw her last night, and she says she's
got a good room that she can give you for two dollars a week--I don't
know how much you'd be willing to pay, but----"

"I can pay that for a time at least. I have a little money, and I must
find some work to do soon. Is this Mrs. O'Keefe a nice lady?"

"She ain't a lady at all," answered Dodger, bluntly. "She keeps an
apple-stand near the corner of Bowery and Grand Street; but she's a
good, respectable woman, and she's good-hearted. She'll be kind to
you, and try to make things pleasant; but if you ain't satisfied----"

"It will do for the present. Kindness is what I need, driven as I am
from the home of my childhood. But you, Dodger, where do you live?"

"I'm goin' to take a small room in the same house, Miss Florence."

"I shall be glad to have you near me."

"I am proud to hear you say that. I'm a poor boy, and you're a rich
lady, but----"

"Not rich, Dodger. I am as poor as yourself."

"You're a reg'lar lady, anyway. You ain't one of my kind, but I'm
going to improve and raise myself. I was readin' the other day of a
rich man that was once a poor boy, and sold papers like me. But
there's one thing in the way--I ain't got no eddication."

"You can read and write, can't you, Dodger?"

"Yes; I can read pretty well, but I can't write much."

"I will teach you in the evenings, when we are both at leisure."

"Will you?" asked the boy, with a glad smile. "You're very kind--I'd
like a teacher like you."

"Then it's a bargain, Dodger," and Florence's face for the first time
lost its sad look, as she saw an opportunity of helping one who had
befriended her. "But you must promise to study faithfully."

"That I will. If I don't, I'll give you leave to lick me."

"I shan't forget that," said Florence, amused. "I will buy a ruler of
good hard wood, and then you must look out. But, tell me, where have
you lived hitherto?"

"I don't like to tell you, Miss Florence. I've lived ever since I was
a kid with a man named Tim Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery,
near Houston Street. It's a tough place, I tell you. I've got a bed in
one corner--it's tucked away in a closet in the day."

"I suppose it is a drinking saloon?"

"Yes, that's what it is."

"And kept open very late?"

"Pretty much all night."

"Is this Tim Bolton any relation of yours?"

"He says he's my father; but I don't believe it."

"Have you always lived with him?"

"Ever since I was a small kid."

"Have you always lived in New York?"

"No; I was out in Australia. Tim was out in the country part of the
time, and part of the time he kept a saloon in Melbourne. There was
thieves and burglars used to come into his place. I knew what they
were, though they didn't think I did."

"How terrible for a boy to be subjected to such influences."

"But I've made up my mind I won't live with Tim no longer. I can earn
my own livin' sellin' papers, or smashin' baggage, and keep away from
Tim. I'd have done it before if I'd had a friend like you to care for
me."

"We will stand by each other, Dodger. Heaven knows I need a friend,
and if I can be a friend to you, and help you, I will."

"We'll get out here, Miss Florence. I told Mrs. O'Keefe I'd call at
her stand, and she'll go over and show you your room."

They left the car at the corner of Grand Street, and Dodger led the
way to an apple-stand, presided over by a lady of ample proportions,
whose broad, Celtic face seemed to indicate alike shrewd good sense
and a kindly spirit.

"Mrs. O'Keefe," said Dodger, "this is the young lady I spoke to you
about--Miss Florence Linden."

"It's welcome you are, my dear, and I'm very glad to make your
acquaintance. You look like a rale leddy, and I don't know how you'll
like the room I've got for you."

"I cannot afford to be particular, Mrs. O'Keefe. I have had a--a
reverse of circumstances, and I must be content with an humble home."

"Then I'll go over and show it to you. Here, Kitty, come and mind the
stand," she called to a girl about thirteen across the street, "and
don't let anybody steal the apples. Look out for Jimmy Mahone, he
stole a couple of apples right under my nose this mornin', the young
spalpeen!"

As they were crossing the street, a boy of fourteen ran up to Dodger.

"Dodger," said he, "you'd better go right over to Tim Bolton's. He's
in an awful stew--says he'll skin you alive if you don't come to the
s'loon right away."




Chapter IX.
The New Home.


"You can tell Tim Bolton," said Dodger, "that I don't intend to come
back at all."

"You don't mean it, Dodger?" said Ben Holt, incredulously.

"Yes, I do. I'm going to set up for myself."

"Oh, Dodger," said Florence, "I'm afraid you will get into trouble for
my sake!"

"Don't worry about that, Miss Florence. I'm old enough to take care of
myself, and I've got tired of livin' with Tim."

"But he may beat you!"

"He'll have to get hold of me first."

They had reached a four-story tenement of shabby brick, which was
evidently well filled up by a miscellaneous crowd of tenants; shop
girls, mechanics, laborers and widows, living by their daily toil.

Florence had never visited this part of the city, and her heart sank
within her as she followed Mrs. O'Keefe through a dirty hallway, up a
rickety staircase, to the second floor.

"One more flight of stairs, my dear," said Mrs. O'Keefe,
encouragingly. "I've got four rooms upstairs; one of them is for you,
and one for Dodger."

Florence did not reply. She began to understand at what cost she had
secured her freedom from a distasteful marriage.

In her Madison Avenue home all the rooms were light, clean and
luxuriously furnished. Here---- But words were inadequate to describe
the contrast.

Mrs. O'Keefe threw open the door of a back room about twelve feet
square, furnished in the plainest manner, uncarpeted, except for a
strip that was laid, like a rug, beside the bedstead.

There was a washstand, with a mirror, twelve by fifteen inches, placed
above it, a pine bureau, a couple of wooden chairs, and a cane-seated
rocking-chair.

"There, my dear, what do you say to that?" asked Mrs. O'Keefe,
complacently. "All nice and comfortable as you would wish to see."

"It is--very nice," said Florence, faintly, sacrificing truth to
politeness.

"And who do you think used to live here?" asked the apple-woman.

"I'm sure I don't know."

"The bearded woman in the dime museum," answered Mrs. O'Keefe, nodding
her head. "She lived with me three months, and she furnished the room
herself. When she went away she was hard up, and I bought the
furniture of her cheap. You remember Madam Berger, don't you, Dodger?"

"Oh, yes, I seen her often."

"She got twenty-five dollars a week, and she'd ought to have saved
money, but she had a good-for-nothin' husband that drank up all her
hard earnin's."

"I hope she didn't drink herself," said Florence, who shuddered at the
idea of succeeding a drunken tenant.

"Not a drop. She was a good, sober lady, if she did work in a dime
museum. She only left here two weeks ago. It isn't every one I'd be
willin' to take in her place, but I see you're a real leddy, let alone
that Dodger recommends you. I hope you'll like the room, and I'll do
all I can to make things pleasant. You can go into my room any hour,
my dear, and do your little cookin' on my stove. I s'pose you'll do
your own cookin'?"

"Well, not just at present," faltered Florence. "I am afraid I don't
know much about cooking."

"You'll find it a deal cheaper, and it's more quiet and gentale than
goin' to the eatin'-houses. I'll help you all I can, and glad to."

"Thank you, Mrs. O'Keefe, you are very kind," said Florence,
gratefully. "Perhaps just at first you wouldn't object to taking me as
a boarder, and letting me take my meals with you. I don't think I
would like to go to the eating-houses alone."

"To be sure, my dear, if you wish it, and I'll be glad of your
company. I'll make the terms satisfactory."

"I have no doubt of that," said Florence, feeling very much relieved.

"If I might be so bold, what kind of work are you going to do?"

"I hardly know. It has come upon me so suddenly. I shall have to do
something, for I haven't got much money. What I should like best would
be to write----"

"Is it for the papers you mean?"

"Oh, no; I mean for some author or lawyer."

"I don't know much about that," said Mrs. O'Keefe. "In fact, I don't
mind tellin' you, my dear, that I can't write myself, but I earn a
good livin' all the same by my apple-stand. I tell you, my dear," she
continued in a confidential tone, "there is a good dale of profit in
sellin' apples. It's better than sewin' or writin'. Of course, a young
leddy like you wouldn't like to go into the business."

Florence shook her head, with a smile.

"No, Mrs. O'Keefe," she said. "I am afraid I haven't a business turn,
and I should hardly like so public an employment."

"Lor', miss, it's nothin' if you get used to it. There's nothin' dull
about my business, unless it rains, and you get used to havin' people
look at you."

"It isn't all that are worth looking at like you, Mrs. O'Keefe," said
Dodger, slyly.

"Oh, go away wid your fun, Dodger," said the apple-woman,
good-naturedly. "I ain't much to look at, I know."

"I think there's a good deal of you to look at, Mrs. O'Keefe. You must
weigh near three hundred."

"I've a good mind to box your ears, Dodger. I only weigh a hundred and
ninety-five. But I can't be bothered wid your jokes. Can you sew, Miss
Florence?"

"Yes; but I would rather earn my living some other way, if possible."

"Small blame to you for that. I had a girl in Dodger's room last year
who used to sew for a livin'. Early and late she worked, poor thing,
and she couldn't make but two dollars a week."

"How could she live?" asked Florence, startled, for she knew very
little of the starvation wages paid to toiling women.

"She didn't live. She just faded away, and it's my belief the poor
thing didn't get enough to eat. Every day or two I'd make an excuse to
take her in something from my own table, a plate of meat, or a bit of
toast and a cup of tay, makin' belave she didn't get a chance to cook
for herself, but she got thinner and thinner, and her poor cheeks got
hollow, and she died in the hospital at last."

The warm-hearted apple-woman wiped away a tear with the corner of her
apron, as she thought of the poor girl whose sad fate she described.

"You won't die of consumption, Mrs. O'Keefe," said Dodger. "It'll take
a good while for you to fade away."

"Hear him now," said the apple-woman, laughing. "He will have his
joke, Miss Florence, but he's a good bye for all that, and I'm glad
he's goin' to lave Tim Bolton, that ould thafe of the worruld."

"Now, Mrs. O'Keefe, you know you'd marry Tim if he'd only ask you."

"Marry him, is it? I'd lay my broom over his head if he had the
impudence to ask me. When Maggie O'Keefe marries ag'in, she won't
marry a man wid a red nose."

"Break it gently to him, Mrs. O'Keefe. Tim is just the man to break
his heart for love of you."

Mrs. O'Keefe aimed a blow at Dodger, but he proved true to his name,
and skillfully evaded it.

"I must be goin'," he said. "I've got to work, or I can't pay room
rent when the week comes round."

"What are you going to do, Dodger?" asked Florence.

"It isn't time for the evenin' papers yet, so I shall go 'round to the
piers and see if I can't get a job at smashin' baggage."

"But I shouldn't think any one would want to do that," said Florence,
puzzled.

"It's what we boys call it. It's just carryin' valises and bundles.
Sometimes I show strangers the way to Broadway. Last week an old man
paid me a dollar to show him the way to the Cooper Institute. He was a
gentleman, he was. I'd like to meet him ag'in. Good-by, Miss Florence;
I'll be back some time this afternoon."

"And I must be goin', too," said Mrs. O'Keefe. "I can't depend on that
Kitty; she's a wild slip of a girl, and just as like as not I'll find
a dozen apples stole when I get back. I hope you won't feel lonely, my
dear."

"I think I will lie down a while," said Florence. "I have a headache."

She threw herself on the bed, and a feeling of loneliness and
desolation came over her.

Her new friends were kind, but they could not make up to her for her
uncle's love, so strangely lost, and the home she had left behind.




Chapter X.
The Arch Conspirator.


In the house on Madison Avenue, Curtis Waring was left in possession
of the field. Through his machinations Florence had been driven from
home and disinherited.

He was left sole heir to his uncle's large property with the prospect
of soon succeeding, for though only fifty-four, John Linden looked at
least ten years older, and was as feeble as many men past seventy.

Yet, as Curtis seated himself at the breakfast table an hour after
Florence had left the house, he looked far from happy or triumphant.

One thing he had not succeeded in, the conquest of his cousin's heart.
Though he loved himself best, he was really in love with Florence, so
far as he was capable of being in love with any one.

She was only half his age--scarcely that--but he persuaded himself
that the match was in every way suitable.

He liked to fancy her at the head of his table, after the death of his
uncle, which he anticipated in a few months at latest.

The more she appeared to dislike him, the more he determined to marry
her, even against her will.

She was the only one likely to inherit John Linden's wealth, and by
marrying her he would make sure of it.

Yet she had been willing to leave the home of her youth, to renounce
luxury for a life of poverty, rather than to marry him.

When he thought of this his face became set and its expression stern
and determined.

"Florence shall yet be mine," he declared, resolutely. "I will yet be
master of her fate, and bend her to my will. Foolish girl, how dare
she match her puny strength against the resolute will of Curtis
Waring?"

"Was there any one else whom she loved?" he asked himself, anxiously.
No, he could think of none. On account of his uncle's chronic
invalidism, they had neither gone into society, nor entertained
visitors, and in the midst of a great city Florence and her uncle had
practically led the lives of recluses.

There had been no opportunity to meet young men who might have proved
claimants for her hand.

"When did Miss Florence leave the house, Jane?" he inquired, as he
seated himself at the table.

"Most an hour since," the girl answered, coldly, for she disliked
Curtis as much as she loved and admired Florence.

"It is sad, very sad that she should be so headstrong," said Curtis,
with hypocritical sorrow.

"It is sad for her to go away from her own uncle's house," returned
Jane.

"And very--very foolish."

"I don't know about that, sir. She had her reasons," said Jane,
significantly.

Curtis coughed.

He had no doubt that Florence had talked over the matter with her
hand-maiden.

"Did she say where she was going, Jane?" he asked.

"I don't think the poor child knew herself, sir."

"Did she go alone?"

"No, sir; the boy that was here last night called for her."

"That ragamuffin!" said Curtis, scornfully. "She certainly shows
extraordinary taste for a young lady of family."

"The boy seems a very kind and respectable boy," said Jane, who had
been quite won by Dodger's kindness to her young mistress.

"He may be respectable, though I am not so sure of that; but his
position in life is very humble. He is probably a bootblack; a
singular person to select for the friend of a girl like Florence."

"There's them that stands higher that isn't half so good," retorted
Jane, with more zeal than good grammar.

"Did Miss Florence take a cab?"

"No; she just walked."

"But she took some clothing with her?"

"She took a handbag--that is all. She will send for her trunk."

"If you find out where she is living, just let me know, Jane."

"I will if she is willing to have me," answered Jane, independently.

"Look here, Jane," said Curtis, angrily, "don't forget that you are
not her servant, but my uncle's. It is to him you look for wages, not
to Miss Florence."

"I don't need to be told that, sir. I know that well enough."

"Then you know that it is to him that your faithful services are due,
not to Florence?"

"I'm faithful to both, Mr. Waring."

"You are aware that my uncle is justly displeased with my cousin?"

"I know he's displeased, but I am sure he has no good reason to be."

Curtis Waring bit his lips. The girl, servant as she was, seemed to be
openly defying him. His imperious temper could ill brook this.

"Take care!" he said, with a frown. "You seem to be lacking in respect
to me. You don't appear to understand my position in this house."

"Oh, yes, I do. I know you have schemed to get my poor young mistress
out of the house, and have succeeded."

"I have a great mind to discharge you, girl," said Curtis, with
lowering brow.

"I am not your servant, sir. You have nothing to do with me."

"You will see whether I have or not. I will let you remain for a time,
as it is your attachment to Miss Florence that has made you forget
yourself. You will find that it is for your interest to treat me
respectfully."

A feeble step was heard at the door, and John Linden entered the
breakfast-room. His face was sad, and he heaved a sigh as he glanced
mechanically at the head of the table, where Florence usually sat.

Curtis Waring sprang to his feet, and placing himself at his uncle's
side, led him to his seat.

"How do you feel this morning, uncle?" he asked, with feigned
solicitude.

"Ill, Curtis. I didn't sleep well last night."

"I don't wonder, sir. You had much to try you."

"Is--is Florence here?"

"No, sir," answered Jane, promptly. "She left the house an hour ago."

A look of pain appeared on John Linden's pale face.

"Did--did she leave a message for me?" he asked, slowly.

"She asked me to bid you good-by for her," answered Jane, quickly.

"Uncle, don't let yourself be disturbed now with painful thoughts. Eat
your breakfast first, and then we will speak of Florence."

John Linden ate a very light breakfast. He seemed to have lost his
appetite and merely toyed with his food.

When he arose from the table, Curtis supported him to the library.

"It is very painful to me--this conduct of Florence's, Curtis," he
said, as he sank into his armchair.

"I understand it fully, uncle," said Curtis. "When I think of it, it
makes me very angry with the misguided girl."

"Perhaps I have been too harsh--too stern!"

"You, uncle, too harsh! Why, you are the soul of gentleness. Florence
has shown herself very ungrateful."

"Yet, Curtis, I love that girl. Her mother seemed to live again in
her. Have I not acted cruelly in requiring her to obey me or leave the
house?"

"You have acted only for good. You are seeking her happiness."

"You really think this, Curtis?"

"I am sure of it."

"But how will it all end?" asked Linden, bending an anxious look upon
his wily nephew.

"By Florence yielding."

"You are sure of that?"

"Yes. Listen, uncle; Florence is only capricious, like most girls of
her age. She foolishly desires to have her own way. It is nothing more
serious, I can assure you."

"But she has left the house. That seems to show that she is in
earnest."

"She thinks, uncle, that by doing so she can bend you to her wishes.
She hasn't the slightest idea of any permanent separation. She is
merely experimenting upon your weakness. She expects you will recall
her in a week, at the latest. That is all of it."

Like most weak men, it made Mr. Linden angry to have his strength
doubted.

"You think that?" he said.

"I have no doubt of it."

"She shall find that I am resolute," he said, irritably. "I will not
recall her."

"Bravo, uncle! Only stick to that, and she will yield unconditionally
within a fortnight. A little patience, and you will carry your point.
Then all will be smooth sailing."

"I hope so, Curtis. Your words have cheered me. I will be patient. But
I hope I shan't have to wait long. Where is the morning paper?"

"I shall have to humor and deceive him," thought Curtis. "I shall have
a difficult part to play, but I am sure to succeed at last."




Chapter XI.
Florence Secures Employment.


For a few days after being installed in her new home Florence was like
one dazed.

She could not settle her mind to any plan of self-support.

She was too unhappy in her enforced exile from her home, and it
saddened her to think that the uncle who had always been so kind was
permanently estranged from her.

Though Mrs. O'Keefe was kind, and Dodger was her faithful friend, she
could not accustom herself to her poor surroundings.

She had not supposed luxury so essential to her happiness.

It was worse for her because she had nothing to do but give way to her
morbid fancies.

This Mrs. O'Keefe was clear-sighted enough to see.

"I am sorry to see you so downcast like, my dear young lady," she
said.

"How can I help it, Mrs. O'Keefe?" returned Florence.

"Try not to think of your wicked cousin, my dear."

"It isn't of him that I think--it is of my uncle. How could he be so
cruel, and turn against me after years of kindness?"

"It's that wicked Curtis that is settin' him against you, take my word
for it, Miss Florence. Shure, he must be wake-minded to let such a
spalpeen set him against a swate young leddy like you."

"He is weak in body, not in mind, Mrs. O'Keefe. You are right in
thinking that it is Curtis that is the cause of my misfortune."

"Your uncle will come to his right mind some day, never fear! And now,
my dear, shall I give you a bit of advice?"

"Go on, my kind friend. I will promise to consider whatever you say."

"Then you'd better get some kind of work to take up your mind--a bit
of sewin', or writin', or anything that comes to hand. I suppose you
wouldn't want to mind my apple-stand a couple of hours every day?"

"No," answered Florence. "I don't feel equal to that."

"It would do you no end of good to be out in the open air. It would
bring back the roses to your pale cheeks. If you coop yourself up in
this dark room, you'll fade away and get thin."

"You are right. I will make an effort and go out. Besides, I must see
about work."

Here Dodger entered the room in his usual breezy way. In his hand he
brandished a morning paper.

"How are you feelin', Florence?" he asked; he had given up saying Miss
Florence at her request. "Here's an advertisement that'll maybe suit
you."

"Show it to me, Dodger," said Florence, beginning to show some
interest.

The boy directed her attention to the following advertisement:

    "Wanted.--A governess for a girl of twelve. Must be a good
    performer on the piano, and able to instruct in French and
    the usual English branches. Terms must be moderate. Apply to
    Mrs. Leighton, at 127 W. ---- Street."

"There, Florence, what do you say to that? That's better than sewin'."

"I don't know, Dodger, whether I am competent."

"You play on the pianner, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well enough to teach?"

"I think so; but I may not have the gift of teaching."

"Yes, you have. Haven't you been teachin' me every evenin'? You make
everything just as clear as mud--no, I don't mean that. You just
explain so that I can't help understandin'."

"Then," said Florence, "I suppose I am at liberty to refer to you."

"Yes; you can tell the lady to call at the office of Dodger, Esq., any
mornin' after sunrise, and he'll give her full particulars."

Florence did not immediately decide to apply for the situation, but
the more she thought of it the more she felt inclined to do so. The
little experience she had had with Dodger satisfied her that she
should enjoy teaching better than sewing or writing.

Accordingly, an hour later, she put on her street dress and went
uptown to the address given in the advertisement.

No. 127 was a handsome brown-stone house, not unlike the one in which
Florence had been accustomed to live. It was a refreshing contrast to
the poor tenement in which she lived at present.

"Is Mrs. Leighton at home?" inquired Florence. "Yes, miss," answered
the servant, respectfully. "Whom shall I say?"

"I have come to apply for the situation of governess," answered
Florence, feeling rather awkward as she made the statement.

"Ah," said the servant, with a perceptible decline in respect. "Won't
you step in?"

"Thank you."

"Well, she do dress fine for a governess," said Nancy to herself.
"It's likely she'll put on airs."

The fact was that Florence was dressed according to her past social
position--in a costly street attire--but it had never occurred to her
that she was too well dressed for a governess.

She took her seat in the drawing-room, and five minutes later there
was a rustling heard, and Mrs. Leighton walked into the room.

"Are you the applicant for the position of governess?" she asked,
surveying the elegantly attired young lady seated on the sofa.

"Yes, Mrs. Leighton," answered Florence, easily, for she felt more at
home in a house like this than in the tenement.

"Have you taught before?"

"Very little," answered Florence, smiling to herself, as she wondered
what Mrs. Leighton would say if she could see Dodger, the only pupil
she ever had. "However, I like teaching, and I like children."

"Pardon me, but you don't look like a governess, Miss----"

"Linden," suggested Florence, filling out the sentence. "Do
governesses have a peculiar look?"

"I mean as to dress. You are more expensively dressed than the average
governess can afford."

"It is only lately that my circumstances required me to support
myself. I should not be able to buy such a dress out of my present
earnings."

"I am glad to hear you say that, for I do not propose to give a large
salary."

"I do not expect one," said Florence, quietly. "You consider yourself
competent to instruct in music, French and the English branches?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you speak French?"

"Yes, madam."

"Would you favor me with a specimen of your piano playing?"

There was a piano in the back parlor. Florence removed her gloves, and
taking a seat before it, dashed into a spirited selection from
Strauss.

Mrs. Leighton listened with surprised approval.

"Certainly you are a fine performer," she said. "What--if I should
engage you--would you expect in the way of compensation?"

"How much time would you expect me to give?"

"Three hours daily--from nine to twelve."

"I hardly know what to say. What did you expect to pay?"

"About fifty cents an hour."

Florence knew very well, from the sums that had been paid for her own
education, that this was miserably small pay; but it was much more
than she could earn by sewing.

"I will teach a month on those terms," she said, after a pause.

Mrs. Leighton looked well pleased. She knew that she was making a
great bargain.

"Oh, by the way," she said, "can you give references?"

"I can refer you to Madam Morrison," naming the head of a celebrated
female seminary. "She educated me."

"That will be quite satisfactory," said Mrs. Leighton, graciously.
"Can you begin to-morrow?"

"Yes, madam."

"You will then see your pupil. At present she is out."

Florence bowed and withdrew.

She had been afraid Mrs. Leighton would inquire where she lived, and
she would hardly dare to name the humble street which she called home.

She walked toward Fifth Avenue, when, just as she was turning the
corner, she met Mr. Percy de Brabazon, swinging a slender cane, and
dressed in the extreme of the fashion.

"Miss Linden!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "This is--aw--indeed a pleasure.
Where are you walking this fine morning? May I--aw--have the pleasure
of accompanying you?"

Florence stopped short in deep embarrassment.




Chapter XII.
A Friend, Though A Dude.


Percy de Brabazon looked sincerely glad to meet Florence, and she
herself felt some pleasure in meeting one who reminded her of her
former life.

But it was quite impossible that she should allow him to accompany her
to her poor home on the East Side.

"Thank you, Mr. de Brabazon, but my engagements this morning will
hardly permit me to accept your escort," she said.

"I suppose that means that you are going shopping; but I don't mind
it, I assure you, and I will carry your bundles," he added,
magnanimously.

"That would never do. What! the fashionable Mr. de Brabazon carrying
bundles? You would lose your social status."

"I don't mind, Miss Florence, as long as you give me--aw--an approving
smile."

"I will give it now, as I bid you good-morning."

"May I--aw--have the pleasure of calling upon you to-morrow evening,
Miss Linden?"

"It is evident that you have not heard that I am no longer residing
with my uncle."

Mr. de Brabazon looked surprised.

"No, I had not heard. May I ask--aw--where you are wesiding?"

"With friends," answered Florence, briefly. "As you are a friend and
will be likely to hear it, I may as well mention that my uncle is
displeased with me, and has practically disowned me."

"Then, Miss Florence," said Mr. de Brabazon, eagerly, "won't you
accept--aw--my heart and hand? My mother will be charmed to receive
you, and I--aw--will strive to make you happy."

"I appreciate your devotion, I do, indeed, Mr. de Brabazon," said
Florence, earnestly; "but I must decline your offer. I will not marry
without love."

"I don't mind that," said Percy, "if you'll agree to take a feller;
you'll learn in time to like him a little. I am wich--I know you don't
care for that--but I can give you as good a home as your uncle. If you
would give me hope--aw----"

"I am afraid I cannot, Mr. de Brabazon, but if you will allow me to
look upon you as a friend, I will call upon you if I have need of a
friend's services."

"Will you, weally?"

"Yes, there is my hand on it. I ought to tell you that I must now earn
my own living, and am to give lessons to a young pupil in West ----
Street, three hours daily."

"You don't mean to say you are actually poor?" said Mr. de Brabazon,
horrified.

"Yes, indeed, I am."

"Then, won't you let me lend you some money? I've got more than I
need, I have, 'pon my honor."

"Thank you, I promise to call upon you if I need it."

Mr. de Brabazon looked pleased.

"Would you mind telling me where you are going to teach, Miss
Florence?"

Florence hesitated, but there was something so sincere and friendly in
the young man's manner--dude though he was--that she consented to
grant his request.

"I am to teach the daughter of Mr. Robert Leighton."

"Why, Miss Leighton is my cousin," said Percy, in joyous excitement.

"Indeed! Had I known that I would hardly have told you."

"Don't be afwaid! I will be vewy discreet," said Mr. de Brabazon.

"Thank you, and good-morning."

Florence went on her way, cheered and encouraged in spite of herself,
by her success in obtaining employment, and by the friendly offers of
Mr. de Brabazon.

"It is wrong to get discouraged," she said to herself. "After all,
there are warm hearts in the world."

When she entered her humble home, she found Dodger already there.
There was an eagerness in his manner, and a light in his eye, that
seemed to indicate good news.

"Well, Dodger, what is it?"

"I've been waitin' half an hour to see you, Florence," he said. "I've
got some work for you."

"What is it--sewing on a button, or mending a coat?"

"No, I mean workin' for money. You can play on the pianner, can't
you?"

"Yes."

"They want a young lady to play the pianner at a dime museum, for nine
dollars a week. It's a bully chance. I just told the manager--he's a
friend of mine--that I had a young lady friend that was a stunnin'
player, and he wants you to come around and see him."

It was a preposterous idea--so Florence thought--that she should
consent to play at such a place; but she couldn't expect Dodger to
look at the matter in the same light, so she answered, very gently and
pleasantly:

"You are very kind, Dodger, to look out for me, but I shall not need
to accept your friend's offer. I have secured a chance to teach
uptown."

"You have? What'll you get?"

"I am to be employed three hours daily, at fifty cents an hour."

"Geewhillikens! that's good! You'd have to work as much as twelve
hours at the museum for the same pay."

"You see, therefore, that I am provided for--that is, if I suit."

Dodger was a little disappointed. Still, he could not help admitting
that it would be better for Florence to teach three hours, than to
work ten or twelve. As to her having any objection to appearing at a
dime museum, that never occurred to him.

Florence had sent for her trunk, and it was now in her room.

Dodger accompanied an expressman to the house, and luckily saw Jane,
who arranged everything for him.

"How's the old gentleman?" asked Dodger. "Florence wanted me to ask."

"He's feeble," said Jane, shaking her head.

"Does he miss Florence?"

"That he do."

"Why don't he send for her, then, to come back?" asked Dodger,
bluntly.

"Because Curtis Waring makes him believe she'll come around and ask
forgiveness, if he only holds out. I tell you, Dodger, that Curtis is
a viper."

"So he is," answered Dodger, who was not quite clear in his mind as to
what a viper was. "I'd like to step on his necktie."

"If it wasn't for him, my dear young mistress would be back in the
house within twenty-four hours."

"I don't see how the old gentleman can let him turn Florence out of
the house."

"He's a snake in the grass, Dodger. It may be wicked, but I just wish
something would happen to him. And how is Miss Florence lookin', poor
dear?"

"She's lookin' like a daisy."

"Does she worry much?"

"She did at first, but now she's workin' every day, and she looks more
cheerful-like."

"Miss Florence workin'! She that was always brought up like a lady!"

"She's teachin' a little girl three hours a day."

"Well, that isn't so bad!" said Jane, relieved. "Teachin' is genteel.
I wish I could see her some day. Will you tell her, Dodger, that next
Sunday is my day out, and I'll be in Central Park up by the menagerie
at three o'clock, if she'll only take the trouble to be up there?"

"I'll tell her, Jane, and I'm sure she'll be there."

A day or two afterward Curtis Waring asked: "Have you heard from my
Cousin Florence since she went away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Indeed! Where is she staying?"

"She didn't send me word."

"How, then, did you hear from her?"

"Dodger came with an expressman for her trunk."

Curtis Waring frowned.

"And you let him have it?" he demanded, sternly.

"Of course I did. Why shouldn't I?"

"You should have asked me."

"And what business have you with Miss Florence's trunk, I'd like to
know?" said Jane, independently.

"Never mind; you ought to have asked my permission."

"I didn't think you'd want to wear any of Miss Florence's things, Mr.
Waring."

"You are silly and impertinent," said Curtis, biting his lips. "Did
that boy tell you anything about her?"

"Only that she wasn't worryin' any for you, Mr. Curtis."

Curtis glanced angrily at his cousin's devoted friend, and then,
turning on his heel, left the room.

"I'll bring her to terms yet," he muttered. "No girl of seventeen
shall defy me!"




Chapter XIII.
Tim Bolton's Saloon.


Not far from Houston Street, on the west side of the Bowery, is an
underground saloon, with whose proprietor we are already acquainted.

It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady
characteristics well fitted him for such a business.

It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic
scene.

On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated
a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before
them.

Tim, with a white apron on, was moving about behind the bar,
ministering to the wants of his patrons. There was a scowl upon his
face, for he was not fond of work, and he missed Dodger's assistance.

The boy understood the business of mixing drinks as well as he, and
often officiated for hours at a time, thus giving his guardian and
reputed father a chance to leave the place and meet outside
engagements.

A tall, erect gentleman entered the saloon, and walked up to the bar.

"Good-evening, colonel," said Tim.

"Good-evening, sir," said the newcomer, with a stately inclination of
the head.

He was really a colonel, having served in the Civil War at the head of
a Georgia regiment.

He had all the stately courtesy of a Southern gentleman, though not
above the weakness of a frequent indulgence in the strongest fluids
dispensed by Tim Bolton.

"What'll you have, colonel?"

"Whiskey straight, sir. It's the only drink fit for a gentleman. Will
you join me, Mr. Bolton?"

"Of course, I will," said Tim, as, pouring out a glass for himself, he
handed the bottle to the colonel.

"Your health, sir," said the colonel, bowing.

"Same to you, colonel," responded Tim, with a nod.

"Where's the boy?"

Col. Martin had always taken considerable notice of Dodger, being
naturally fond of boys, and having once had a son of his own, who was
killed in a railroad accident when about Dodger's age.

"Danged if I know!" answered Tim, crossly.

"He hasn't left you, has he?"

"Yes; he's cleared out, the ungrateful young imp! I'd like to lay my
hands on the young rascal."

"Was he your son?"

"He was my--stepson," answered Tim, hesitating.

"I see, you married his mother."

"Yes," said Tim, considering the explanation satisfactory, and
resolved to adopt it. "I've always treated him as if he was my own
flesh and blood, and I've raised him from a young kid. Now he's gone
and left me."

"Can you think of any reason for his leaving you?"

"Not one. I always treated him well. He's been a great expense to me,
and now he's got old enough to help me he must clear out. He's the
most ungrateful cub I ever seen."

"I am sorry he has gone--I used to like to have him serve me."

"And now what's the consequence? Here I am tied down to the bar day
and night."

"Can't you get some one in his place?"

"Yes, but I'd likely be robbed; I had a bartender once who robbed me
of two or three dollars a day."

"But you trusted the boy?"

"Yes, Dodger wouldn't steal--I can say that much for him."

"There's one thing I noticed about the boy," said the colonel,
reflectively. "He wouldn't drink. More than once I have asked him to
drink with me, but he would always say, 'Thank you, colonel, but I
don't like whiskey.' I never asked him to take anything else, for
whiskey's the only drink fit for a gentleman. Do you expect to get the
boy back?"

"If I could only get out for a day I'd hunt him up; but I'm tied down
here."

"I seed him yesterday, Tim," said a red-nosed man who had just entered
the saloon, in company with a friend of the same general appearance.
Both wore silk hats, dented and soiled with stains of dirt, coats long
since superannuated, and wore the general look of barroom loafers.

They seldom had any money, but lay in wait for any liberal stranger,
in the hope of securing a free drink.

"Where did you see him, Hooker?" asked Tim Bolton, with sudden
interest.

"Selling papers down by the Astor House."

"Think of that, colonel!" said Tim, disgusted. "Becomin' a common
newsboy, when he might be in a genteel employment! Did you speak to
him, Hooker?"

"Yes, I asked him if he had left you."

"What did he say?"

"That he had left you for good--that he was going to grow up
respectable!"

"Think of that!" said Tim, with renewed disgust. "Did he say where he
lived?"

"No."

"Did he ask after me?"

"No, except he said that you were no relation of his. He said he
expected you stole him when he was a kid, and he hoped some time to
find his relations."

Tim Bolton's face changed color, and he was evidently disturbed. Could
the boy have heard anything? he wondered, for his suspicions were very
near the truth.

"It's all nonsense!" he said, roughly. "Next time you see him, Hooker,
foller him home, and find out where he lives."

"All right, Tim. It ought to be worth something," he insinuated, with
a husky cough.

"That's so. What'll you take?"

"Whiskey," answered Hooker, with a look of pleased anticipation.

"You're a gentleman, Tim," he said, as he gulped down the contents of
a glass without winking.

Briggs, his dilapidated companion, had been looking on in thirsty
envy.

"I'll help Hooker to look for Dodger," he said.

"Very well, Briggs."

"Couldn't you stand a glass for me, too, Tim?" asked Briggs, eagerly.

"No," answered Bolton, irritably. "I've been at enough expense for
that young rascal already."

But the colonel noticed the pathetic look of disappointment on the
face of Briggs, and he was stirred to compassion.

"Drink with me, sir," he said, turning to the overjoyed Briggs.

"Thank you, colonel. You're a gentleman!"

"Two glasses, Tim."

So the colonel drained a second glass, and Briggs, pouring out with
trembling fingers as much as he dared, followed suit.

When the last drop was drunk, he breathed a deep sigh of measureless
enjoyment.

"If either of you bring that boy in here," said Tim, "I'll stand a
couple of glasses for both."

"We're your men, Tim," said Hooker. "Ain't we, Briggs?"

"That's so, Hooker. Shake!"

And the poor victims of drink shook hands energetically. Long since
they had sunk their manhood in the intoxicating cup, and henceforth
lived only to gratify their unnatural craving for what would sooner or
later bring them to a drunkard's grave.

As they left the saloon, the colonel turned to Tim, and said:

"I like whiskey, sir; but I'll be hanged if I can respect such men as
those."

"They're bums, colonel, that's what they are!"

"How do they live?"

"Don't know. They're in here about every day."

"If it's drink that's brought them where they are, I'm half inclined
to give it up; but, after all, it isn't necessary to make a beast of
yourself. I always drink like a gentleman, sir."

"So you do, colonel."

At that moment a poor woman, in a faded calico dress with a thin shawl
over her shoulders, descended the steps that led into the saloon, and
walked up to the bar.

"Has my husband been here to-night?" she asked.

Tim Bolton frowned.

"Who's your husband?" he asked, roughly.

"Wilson."

"No, Bill Wilson hasn't been here to-night. Even if he had you have no
business to come after him. I don't want any sniveling women here."

"I couldn't help it, Mr. Bolton," said the woman, putting her apron to
her eyes. "If Bill comes in, won't you tell him to come home? The
baby's dead, and we haven't a cent in the house!"

Even Tim was moved by this.

"I'll tell him," he said. "Take a drink yourself; you don't look
strong. It shan't cost you a cent."

"No," said the woman, "not a drop! It has ruined my happiness, and
broken up our home! Not a drop!"

"Here, my good lady," said the colonel, with chivalrous deference,
"you have no money. Take this," and he handed the astonished woman a
five-dollar bill.

"Heaven bless you, sir!" she exclaimed, fervently.

"Allow me to see you to the street," and the gallant Southern
gentleman escorted her up to the sidewalk.

"I'd like to horsewhip that woman's husband. Don't you sell him
another drop!" he said, when he returned.




Chapter XIV.
The Missing Will.


An hour after the depart of the colonel there was an unexpected
arrival.

A well-dressed gentleman descended the stairs gingerly, looked about
him with fastidious disdain, and walked up to the bar.

Tim Bolton was filling an order, and did not immediately observe him.

When at length he turned around he exclaimed, in some surprise:

"Mr. Waring!"

"Yes, Bolton, I have found my way here."

"I have been expecting you."

"I came to you for some information."

"Well, ask your questions: I don't know whether I can answer them."

"First, where is my Cousin Florence?"

"How should I know? She wasn't likely to place herself under my
protection."

"She's with that boy of yours--Dodger, I believe you call him. Where
is he?"

"Run away," answered Bolton, briefly.

"Do you mean that you don't know where he is?"

"Yes, I do mean that. I haven't set my eyes on him since that night."

"What do you mean by such negligence? Do you remember who he is?"

"Certainly I do."

"Then why do you let him get of your reach?"

"How could I help it? Here I am tied down to this bar day and night!
I'm nearly dead for want of sleep."

"It would be better to close up your place for a week and look after
him."

"Couldn't do it. I should lose all my trade. People would say I was
closed up."

"And have you done nothing toward his recovery?"

"Yes, I have sent out two men in search of him."

"Have you any idea where he is, or what he is doing?"

"Yes, he has been seen in front of the Astor House, selling papers. I
have authorized my agent, if he sees him again, to follow him home,
and find out where he lives."

"That is good! Astor House? I may see him myself."

"But why do you want to see him? Do you want to restore him to his
rights?"

"Hush!" said Curtis, glancing around him apprehensively. "What we say
may be overheard and excite suspicion. One thing may be secured by
finding him--the knowledge of Florence's whereabouts."

"What makes you think she and the boy are together?"

"He came for her trunk. I was away from home, or I would not have let
it go----"

"It is strange that they two are together, considering their
relationship."

"That is what I am afraid they will find out. She may tell him of the
mysterious disappearance of her cousin, and he----"

"That reminds me," interrupted Bolton. "He told Hooker--Hooker was the
man that saw him in front of the Astor House--that he didn't believe I
was his father. He said he thought I must have stolen him when he was
a young kid."

"Did he say that?" asked Curtis, in evident alarm.

"Yes, so Hooker says."

"If he has that idea in his head, he may put two and two together, and
guess that he is the long-lost cousin of Florence. Tim, the boy must
be got rid of."

"If you mean what I think you do, Mr. Waring, I'm not with you. I
won't consent to harm the boy."

"You said that before. I don't mean anything that will shock your
tender heart, Bolton," said Curtis, with a sneer. "I mean carried to a
distance--Europe or Australia, for instance. All I want is to keep him
out of New York till my uncle is dead. After that I don't care what
becomes of him."

"That's better. I've no objection to that. How is the old gentleman?"

"He grieved so much at first over the girl's loss, that I feared he
would insist on her being recalled at once. I soothed him by telling
him that he had only to remain firm, and she would come around, and
yield to his wishes."

"Do you think she will?" asked Tim, doubtfully.

"I intend she shall!" said Curtis, significantly. "Bolton, I love the
girl all the more for her obstinate refusal to wed me. I have made up
my mind to marry her with her consent, or without it."

"I thought it was only the estate you were after?"

"I want the estate and her with it. Mark my words, Bolton, I will have
both!"

"You will have the estate, no doubt; Mr. Linden has made his will in
your favor, has he not?" and Bolton looked intently in the face of his
visitor.

"Hark you, Bolton, there is a mystery I cannot fathom. My uncle made
two wills. In the earlier, he left the estate to Florence and myself,
if we married; otherwise, to me alone."

"That is satisfactory."

"Yes, but there was another, in which the estate goes to the son, if
living. That will has disappeared."

"Is it possible?" asked Bolton, in astonishment. "When was it missed?"

"On the night of the burglary."

"Then you think----"

"That the boy, Dodger, has it. Good Heavens! if he only knew that by
this will the estate goes to him!" and Waring wiped the perspiration
from his brow.

"You are sure he did not give you the will?" he demanded, eying Bolton
sharply.

"I have not seen him since the night of the robbery."

"If he has read the will, it may lead to dangerous suspicions."

"He would give it to your cousin, Florence, would he not?"

"Perhaps so. Bolton, you must get the boy back, and take the will from
him, if you can."

"I will do my best; but you must remember that Dodger is no longer a
small kid. He is a boy of eighteen, strong and well grown. He wouldn't
be easy to manage. Besides, as long as he doesn't know that he has any
interest in the will, his holding it won't do any harm. Is the old
gentleman likely to live long?"

"I don't know. I sometimes hope---- Pshaw! why should I play the
hypocrite when speaking to you? Surely it is no sin to wish him better
off, since he can't enjoy life!"

"He might if Florence and his son were restored to him."

"What do you mean, Bolton?" asked Curtis, suspiciously.

"What could I mean? It merely occurred to me," said Bolton,
innocently. "You say he is quiet, thinkin' the girl will come around?"

"Yes."

"Suppose time passes, and she doesn't? Won't he try to find her? As
she is in the city, that won't be hard."

"I shall represent that she has left the city."

"For any particular point?"

"No, that is not necessary."

"And then?"

"If he worries himself into the grave, so much the better for me."

"There is no halfway about you, Mr. Curtis Waring."

"Why should there be? Listen, Bolton; I have set my all on this cast.
I am now thirty-six, and still I am dependent upon my uncle's bounty.
I am in debt, and some of my creditors are disposed to trouble me. My
uncle is worth--I don't know how much, but I think half a million.
What does he get out of it? Food and clothes, but not happiness. If it
were mine, all the avenues of enjoyment would be open to me. That
estate I must have."

"Suppose you get it, what is there for me?" asked Bolton.

"I will see that you are recompensed if you help me to it."

"Will you put that in writing?"

"Do you take me for a fool? To put it in writing would be to place me
in your power! You can trust me."

"Well, perhaps so," said Tim Bolton, slowly.

"At any rate you will have to. Well, good-night. I will see you again.
In the meantime try to find the boy."

Tim Bolton followed him with his eyes, as he left the saloon.

"What would he say," said Bolton to himself, "if he knew that the will
he so much wishes to find is in my hands, and that I hold him in my
power already?"




Chapter XV.
The New Governess.


"Wish me luck, Dodger!"

"So I do, Florence. Are you goin' to begin teachin' this mornin'?"

"Yes; and I hope to produce a favorable impression. It is very
important to me to please Mrs. Leighton and my future pupil."

"I'm sure you'll suit. How nice you look!"

Florence smiled, and looked pleased. She had taken pains with her
dress and personal appearance, and, being luckily well provided with
handsome dresses, had no difficulty in making herself presentable. As
she stepped out of the shabby doorway upon the sidewalk no one
supposed her to be a tenant, but she was generally thought to be a
visitor, perhaps the agent of some charitable association.

"Perhaps all will not judge me as favorably as you do, Dodger," said
Florence, with a laugh.

"If you have the headache any day, Florence, I'll take your place."

"You would look rather young for a tutor, Dodger, and I am afraid you
would not be dignified. Good-morning! I shall be back to dinner."

"I am glad to find you punctual, Miss Linden," said Mrs. Leighton, as
Florence was ushered into her presence. "This is your pupil, my
daughter, Carrie."

Florence smiled and extended her hand.

"I hope we will like each other," she said.

The little girl eyed her with approval. This beautiful young lady was
a pleasant surprise to her, for, never having had a governess, she
expected to meet a stiff, elderly lady, of stern aspect. She readily
gave her hand to Florence, and looked relieved.

"Carrie," said Mrs. Leighton, "you may show Miss Linden the way to the
schoolroom."

"All right, mamma," and the little girl led the way upstairs to a back
room on the third floor.

"So this is to be our schoolroom, is it, Carrie?" said Florence. "It
is a very pleasant room."

"Yes; but I should have preferred the front chamber. Mamma thought
that I might be looking into the street too much. Here there is only a
back yard, and nothing to look at."

"Your mamma seems very judicious," said Florence, smiling. "Are you
fond of study?"

"Well, I ain't exactly fond, but I will do my best."

"That is all that can be expected."

"Do you know, Miss Linden, you don't look at all like I expected."

"Am I to be glad or sorry for that?"

"I thought you would be an old maid, stiff and starched, like May
Robinson's governess."

"I am not married, Carrie, so perhaps you may regard me as an old
maid."

"You'll never be an old maid," said Carrie, confidently. "You are too
young and pretty."

"Thank you, Carrie," said Florence, with a little blush. "You say
that, I hope, because you are going to like me."

"I like you already," said the little girl, impulsively. "I've got a
cousin that will like you, too."

"A young girl?"

"No; of course not. He is a young man. His name is Percy de Brabazon.
It is a funny name, isn't it? You see, his father was a Frenchman."

Florence was glad that she already knew from Percy's own mouth of the
relationship, as it saved her from showing a degree of surprise that
might have betrayed her acquaintance with the young man.

"What makes you think your cousin would like me, Carrie?"

"Because he always likes pretty girls. He is a masher."

"That's slang, Carrie. I am sure your mamma wouldn't approve your
using such a word."

"Don't tell her. It just slipped out. But about Percy--he wants very
much to be married."

Florence was not surprised to hear this, for she had the best reason
for knowing it to be true.

"Is he a handsome young man?" she asked, demurely.

"He's funny looking. He's awful good-natured, but he isn't the sort of
young man I would like," concluded Carrie, with amusing positiveness.

"I hope you don't let your mind run on such things. You are quite too
young."

"Oh, I don't think much about it. But Percy is a dude. He spends a
sight for clothes. He always looks as if he had just come out of a
bandbox."

"Is he in any business?"

"No; he has an independent fortune, so mamma says. He was in Europe
last year."

"I think, Carrie, we must give up talking and attend to business. I
should have checked you before, but I thought a little conversation
would help us to get acquainted. Now show me your books, and I will
assign your lessons."

"Don't give me too long lessons, please, Miss Linden."

"I will take care not to task you beyond your strength. I don't want
my pupil to grow sick on my hands."

"I hope you won't be too strict. When May Robinson makes two mistakes
her governess makes her learn her lessons over again."

"I will promise not to be too strict. Now let me see your books."

The rest of the forenoon was devoted to study.

Florence was not only an excellent scholar, but she had the art of
imparting knowledge, and, what is very important, she was able in a
few luminous words to explain difficulties and make clear what seemed
to her pupil obscure.

So the time slipped quickly and pleasantly away, and it was noon
before either she or her pupil realized it.

"It can't be twelve," said Carrie, surprised.

"Yes, it is. We must defer further study till to-morrow."

"Why, it is a great deal pleasanter than going to school, Miss Linden.
I dreaded studying at home, but now I like it."

"I hope you will continue to, Carrie. I can say that the time has
passed away pleasantly for me."

As Florence prepared to resume her street dress, Carrie said:

"Oh, I forgot! Mamma asked me to invite you to stay to lunch with me.
I take lunch as soon as school is out, at twelve o'clock, so I won't
detain you long."

"Thank you, Carrie; I will stay with pleasure."

"I am glad of that, for I don't like to sit down to the table alone.
Mamma is never here at this time. She goes out shopping or making
calls, so poor I have to sit down to the table alone. It will be ever
so much pleasure to have you with me."

Florence was by no means sorry to accept the invitation.

The meals she got at home were by no means luxurious, and the manner
of serving them was by no means what she enjoyed.

Mrs. O'Keefe, though a good friend and a kindhearted woman, was not a
model housekeeper, and Florence had been made fastidious by her early
training. Lunch was, of course, a plain meal, but what was furnished
was of the best quality, and the table service was such as might be
expected in a luxurious home.

Just as Florence was rising from the table, Mrs. Leighton entered the
room in street dress.

"I am glad you remained to lunch, Miss Linden," she said. "You will be
company for my little girl, who is very sociable. Carrie, I hope you
were a good girl, and gave Miss Linden no trouble."

"Ask Miss Linden, mamma," said Carrie, confidently.

"Indeed, she did very well," said Florence. "I foresee that we shall
get along admirably."

"I am glad to hear that. She is apt to be indolent."

"I won't be with Miss Linden, mamma. She makes the studies so
interesting."

After Florence left the house, Carrie pronounced an eulogium upon her
which led Mrs. Leighton to congratulate herself upon having secured a
governess who had produced so favorable an impression on her little
girl.

"Was you kept after school, Florence?" asked Dodger, as she entered
her humble home. "I am afraid you'll find your dinner cold."

"Never mind, Dodger. I am to take dinner--or lunch, rather--at the
house where I am teaching; so hereafter Mrs. O'Keefe need not wait for
me."

"And how do you like your place?"

"It is everything that is pleasant. You wished me good luck, Dodger,
and your wish has been granted."

"I was lucky, too, Florence. I've made a dollar and a quarter this
mornin'."

"Not by selling papers, surely?"

"Not all. A gentleman gave me fifty cents for takin' his valise to the
Long Branch boat."

"It seems we are both getting rich," said Florence, smiling.




Chapter XVI.
Dodger Becomes Ambitious.


"Ah, there, Dodger!"

Dodger, who had been busily and successfully selling evening papers in
front of the Astor House, turned quickly as he heard his name called.

His glance rested on two men, dressed in soiled white hats and shabby
suits, who were apparently holding each other up, having both been
imbibing.

He at once recognized Hooker and Briggs, for he had waited upon them
too many times in Tim's saloon not to recognize them.

"Well," he said, cautiously, "what do you want?"

"Tim has sent us for you!" answered the two, in unison.

"What does he want of me?"

"He wants you to come home. He says he can't get along without you."

"He will have to get along without me," said the boy, independently.
"Tell him I'm not goin' back!"

"You're wrong, Dodger," said Hooker, shaking his head, solemnly.
"Ain't he your father?"

"No, he ain't."

"He says he is," continued Hooker, looking puzzled.

"That don't make it so."

"He ought to know," put in Briggs.

"Yes; he ought to know!" chimed in Hooker.

"No doubt he does, but he can't make me believe he's any relation of
mine."

"Just go and argy the point with him," said Hooker, coaxingly.

"It wouldn't do no good."

"Maybe it would. Just go back with us, that's a good boy."

"What makes you so anxious about it?" asked Dodger, suspiciously.

"Well," said Hooker, coughing, "we're Tim's friends, don't you know."

"What's he goin' to give you if I go back with you?" asked the boy,
shrewdly.

"A glass of whiskey!" replied Hooker and Briggs in unison.

"Is that all?"

"Maybe he'd make it two."

"I won't go back with you," said Dodger, after a moment's thought;
"but I don't want you to lose anything by me. Here's a dime apiece,
and you can go and get a drink somewhere else."

"You're a trump, Dodger," said Hooker, eagerly holding out his hand.

"I always liked you, Dodger," said Briggs, with a similar motion.

"Now, don't let Tim know you've seen me," said the newsboy, warningly.

"We won't."

And the interesting pair ambled off in the direction of the Bowery.

"So Tim sent them fellers after me?" soliloqized Dodger. "I guess I'll
have to change my office, or maybe Tim himself will be droppin' down
on me some mornin'. It'll be harder to get rid of him than of them
chumps."

So it happened that he used to take down his morning papers to the
piers on the North River, and take his chance of selling them to
passengers from Boston and others ports arriving by the Fall River
boats, and others from different points.

The advantage of this was that he often got a chance to serve as guide
to strangers visiting the city for the first time, or as porter, to
carry their valise or other luggage.

Being a bright, wideawake boy, with a pleasant face and manner, he
found his services considerably in demand; and on counting up his
money at the end of the week, he found, much to his encouragement,
that he had received on an average about a dollar and twenty-five
cents per day.

"That's better than sellin' papers alone," thought he. "Besides, Tim
isn't likely to come across me here. I wonder I didn't think of
settin' up for myself before!"

In the evening he spent an hour, and sometimes more, pursuing his
studies, under the direction of Florence. At first his attention was
given chiefly to improving his reading and spelling, for Dodger was
far from fluent in the first, while his style of spelling many words
was strikingly original.

"Ain't I stupid, Florence?" he asked one day, after spelling a word of
three syllables with such ingenious incorrectness as to convulse his
young teacher with merriment.

"Not at all, Dodger. You are making excellent progress; but sometimes
you are so droll that I can't help laughing."

"I don't mind that if you think I am really gettin' on."

"Undoubtedly you are!"

"I make a great many mistakes," said Dodger, dubiously.

"Yes, you do; but you must remember that you have taken lessons only a
short time. Don't you think you can read a good deal more easily than
you did?"

"Yes; I don't trip up half so often as I did. I'm afraid you'll get
tired of teachin' me."

"No fear of that, Dodger. As long as I see that you are improving, I
shall feel encouraged to go on."

"I wish I knew as much as your other scholar."

"You will in time if you go on. You mustn't get discouraged."

"I won't!" said Dodger, stoutly. "If a little gal like her can learn,
I'd ought to be ashamed if I don't--a big boy of eighteen."

"It isn't the size of the boy that counts, Dodger."

"I know that, but I ain't goin' to give in, and let a little gal get
ahead of me!"

"Keep to that determination, Dodger, and you will succeed in time,
never fear."

On the whole, Florence enjoyed both her pupils. She had the faculty of
teaching, and she became very much interested in both.

As for Dodger, she thought, rough diamond as he was, that she saw in
him the making of a manly man, and she felt that it was a privilege to
assist in the development of his intellectual nature.

Again, he had picked up a good deal of slang from the nature of his
associates, and she set to work to improve his language, and teach him
refinement.

It was necessarily a slow process, but she began to find after a time
that a gradual change was coming over him.

"I want you to grow up a gentleman, Dodger," she said to him one day.

"I'm too rough for that, Florence. I'm only an ignorant street boy."

"You are not going to be an ignorant street boy all your life. I don't
see why you should not grow up a polished gentleman."

"I shall never be like that de Brabazon young man," said he.

"No, Dodger; I don't think you will," said Florence, laughing. "I
don't want you to become effeminate nor a dude. I think I would like
you less than I do now."

"Do you like me, Florence?" asked Dodger, brightening up.

"To be sure I do. I hope you don't doubt it."

"Why, it don't seem natural-like. You're a fashionable young lady----"

"Not very fashionable, Dodger, just at present."

"Well, a high-toned young lady--one of the tip-tops, and I am a rough
Bowery boy."

"You were once, but you are getting over that rapidly. Did you ever
hear of Andy Johnson?"

"Who was he?"

"He became President of the United States. Well, at the age of
twenty-one he could neither read nor write."

"At twenty-one?" repeated Dodger. "Why, I'm only eighteen, and I do
know something of readin' and writin'."

"To be sure! Well, Andy Johnson was taught to read and write by his
wife. He kept on improving himself till, in course of time, he became
a United States Senator, Vice-President, and afterward, President.
Now, I don't expect you to equal him, but I see no reason why you
should not become a well-educated man if you are content to work, and
keep on working."

"I will keep on, Florence," said Dodger, earnestly.

"If I ever find my relations I don't want them to be ashamed of me."

It was not the first time he had referred to his uncertain origin.

"Won't Tim Bolton tell you anything about your family?"

"No; I've asked him more'n once. He always says he's my father, and
that makes me mad."

"It is strange," said Florence, thoughtfully. "I had a young cousin
stolen many years ago."

"Was it the son of the old gentleman you lived with on Madison
Avenue?"

"Yes; it was the son of Uncle John. It quite broke him down. After my
cousin's loss he felt that he had nothing to live for."

"I wish I was your cousin, Florence," said Dodger, thoughtfully.

"Well, then, I will adopt you as my cousin, or brother, whichever you
prefer!"

"I would rather be your cousin."

"Then cousin let it be! Now we are bound to each other by strong and
near ties."

"But when your uncle takes you back you'll forget all about poor
Dodger."

"No, I won't, Dodger. There's my hand on it. Whatever comes, we are
friends forever."

"Then I'll try not to disgrace you, Florence. I'll learn as fast as I
can, and see if I don't grow up to be a gentleman."




Chapter XVII.
A Mysterious Adventure.


Several weeks passed without changing in any way the position or
employment of Dodger or Florence.

They had settled down to their respective forms of labor, and were
able not only to pay their modest expenses, but to save up something
for a rainy day.

Florence had but one source of regret.

She enjoyed her work, and did not now lament the luxurious home which
she had lost.

But she did feel sore at heart that her uncle made no sign of regret
for their separation.

From him she received no message of forgiveness or reconciliation.

"He has forgotten me!" she said to herself, bitterly. "He has cast me
utterly out of his heart. I do not care for his money, but I do not
like to think that my kind uncle--for he was always kind till the last
trouble--has steeled his heart against me forever."

But she learned through a chance meeting with Jane, that this was not
so.

"Mr. Linden is getting very nervous and low-spirited," said the girl,
"and sits hour after hour in the library looking into the fire,
a-fotchin' deep sighs every few minutes. Once I saw him with your
photograph--the one you had taken last spring--in his hands, and he
looked sad-like when he laid it down."

"My dear uncle! Then he does think of me sometimes?"

"It's my belief he'd send for you if Curtis would let him."

"Surely Curtis cannot exercise any restraint upon him?"

"He has frequent talks with the old gentleman. I don't know what he
says, but it's sure to be something wicked. I expect he does all he
can to set him against you. Oh, he's a cunning villain, he is, even if
he is your cousin, Miss Florence."

"And do you think my uncle is unhappy, Jane?" said Florence,
thoughtfully.

"That I do, miss."

"He never was very bright or cheerful, you know."

"But he never was like this. And I do think he's gettin' more and more
feeble."

"Do you think I ought to call upon him, and risk his sending me away?"

"It might be worth tryin', Miss Florence."

The result of this conversation was that Florence did make up her mind
the very next afternoon to seek her old home. She had jus