“I don’t think my bogus dollar will carry him very far.  By the way, mother, I must tell yon one strange thing.  He asked me if I was John Barclay’s son.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Barclay, in a tone of great surprise.  “Did he know your name was Barclay?”

“Not till I told him.  Then it was he asked if I was the son of John Barclay.”

“Did he say he knew your father?”

“I asked him, but he answered evasively.”

“He might have seen some resemblance—­that is, if he had ever met your father.  Ah! it was a sad day for us all when your poor father died.  We should have been in a very different position,” the widow sighed.

“Yes, mother,” said Ben; “but when I get older I will try to supply my father’s place, and relieve you from care and trouble.”

“You are doing that in a measure now, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Barclay affectionately.  “You are a great comfort to me.”

Ben’s answer was to go up to his mother and kiss her.  Some boys of his age are ashamed to show their love for the mother who is devoted to them, but it a false shame, that does them no credit.

“Still, mother, you work too hard,” said Ben.  “Wait till I am a man, and you shall not need to work at all.”

Mrs. Barclay had been a widow for five years.  Her husband had been a commercial traveler, but had contracted a fever at Chicago, and died after a brief illness, without his wife having the satisfaction of ministering to him in his last days.  A small sum due him from his employers was paid over to his family, but no property was discovered, though his wife had been under the impression that her husband possessed some.  He had never been in the habit of confiding his business affairs to her, and so, if he had investments of any kind, she could not learn anything about them.  She found herself, therefore, with no property except a small cottage, worth, with its quarter acre of land, perhaps fifteen hundred dollars.  As Ben was too small to earn anything, she had been compelled to raise about seven hundred dollars on mortgage, which by this time had been expended for living.  Now, Ben was earning four dollars a week, and, with her own earnings, she was able to make both ends meet without further encroachments upon her scanty property; but the mortgage was a source of anxiety to her, especially as it was held by Squire Davenport, a lawyer of considerable means, who was not overscrupulous about the methods by which he strove to increase his hoards.  Should he at any time take it into his head to foreclose, there was no one to whom Mrs. Barclay could apply to assume the mortgage, and she was likely to be compelled to sacrifice her home.  He had more than once hinted that he might need the money but as yet had gone no further.

Mrs. Barclay had one comfort, however, and a great one.  This was a good son.  Ben was always kind to his mother—­a bright, popular, promising boy—­and though at present he was unable to earn much, in a few years he would be able to earn a good income, and then his mother knew that she would be well provided for.  So she did not allow herself to borrow trouble but looked forward hopefully, thanking God for what He had given her.