“Only an Irish boy!” answered the other, with a droll look and a slight brogue.

“Then what business have you leaning against my fence?” again demanded Godfrey, imperiously.

“Shure, I didn’t know it was your fence.”

“Then you know now.  Quit leaning against it.”

“Why should I, now?  I don’t hurt it, do I?”

“No matter—­I told you to go away.  We don’t want any beggars here.”

“Shure, I don’t see any,” said the other boy, demurely.

“What are you but a beggar?”

“Shure, I’m a gintleman of indepindent fortune.”

“You look like it,” said Godfrey, disdainfully.  “Where do you keep it?”

“Here!” said the Irish boy, tapping a bundle which he carried over his shoulder, wrapped in a red cotton handkerchief, with a stick thrust through beneath the knot.

“What’s your name?”

“Andy Burke.  What’s yours?”

“I don’t feel under any obligations to answer your questions,” said Godfrey, haughtily.

“Don’t you?  Then what made you ask me?”

“That’s different.  You are only an Irish boy.”

“And who are you?”

“I am the only son of Colonel Anthony Preston,” returned Godfrey, impressively.

“Are you, now?  I thought you was a royal duke, or maybe Queen Victoria’s oldest boy.”

“Fellow, you are becoming impertinent.”

“Faith, I didn’t mean it.  You look so proud and gintale that it’s jist a mistake I made.”

“You knew that we had no dukes in America,” said Godfrey, suspiciously.

“If we had, now, you’d be one of them,” said Andy.

“Why?  What makes you say so?”

“You’re jist the picture of the Earl of Barleycorn’s ildest son that I saw before I left Ireland.”

Godfrey possessed so large a share of ridiculous pride that he felt pleased with the compliment, though he was not clear about its sincerity.

“Where do you live?” he asked, with a slight lowering of his tone.

“Where do I live?  Shure, I don’t live anywhere now, but I’m going to live in the village.  My mother came here a month ago.”

“Why didn’t you come with her?”

“I was workin’ with a farmer, but the work gave out and I came home.  Maybe I’ll find work here.”

“I think I know where your mother lives,” said John, who had heard the conversation.  “She lives up the road a mile or so, in a little house with two rooms.  It’s where old Jake Barlow used to live.”

“Thank you, sir.  I guess I’ll be goin’, then, as my mother’ll be expectin’ me.  Do you know if she’s well?” and a look of anxiety came over the boy’s honest, good-natured face.

The question was addressed to John, but of this Godfrey was not quite sure.  He thought the inquiry was made of him, and his pride was touched.

“What should I know of your mother, you beggar?” he said, with a sneer.  “I don’t associate with such low people.”