Andy produced a genuine silver piece, and the bread was handed to the boy, with the change.

The boy looked at it hesitatingly.

“It is yours,” he said to Andy.

“No, I have changed quarters with you.  I will keep the bad one.”

Again he looked at the boy, and again the resemblance to some familiar face puzzled him.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Ben Carter.”

Carter!  That explained it.  The boy looked like Conrad Carter, though he had a pleasanter expression.

“Have you an Uncle Philemon?” he inquired.

“How did you know?” asked the boy, in surprise.

“Because you look like Conrad Carter.”

“He is my cousin.”

“And you are poor?”

“Yes.”

“Your uncle is considered rich.”

“I know he is, but he won’t do anything for mother.”

Andy was now all the more desirous of seeing the boy’s family.

“I know your uncle,” he said.  “Do you think he knows you are so poor?”

“Yes, for mother has written to him.”

By this time they had reached the place which Ben called home.

“Go upstairs and I will follow,” said Andy.

They went up two flights, and the boy opened a door at the top of the landing.

There was a woman not far from forty in the room.  On her face was a look of settled sorrow.  At her knee was a small boy five years of age.  She looked at Andy inquiringly.

“Mother,” said Ben, “here is the bread.  I couldn’t have bought it, for the quarter was bad, if this boy had not given me another quarter.”

“This young gentleman,” corrected the mother.

“No, Mrs. Carter; I am a boy, and I prefer to be called so.  I came up with Ben, for I find that he is related to Squire Carter, of Arden, whom I know very well.”

“You know Philemon Carter?”

“Yes; he lives in Arden.  That is my birthplace.”

Mrs. Carter’s countenance fell.

“Philemon Carter was my husband’s brother,” she said; “but there is little friendship between us.”

“He is reputed rich.”

“And we are poor.  I see you wonder at that.  When my husband’s father died, Philemon was executor.  It was understood that he was worth twenty-five thousand dollars.  Yet of this amount my poor husband received but one thousand.  I may be uncharitable, but I have always felt that Philemon cheated us out of our rightful share.”

“I should not be surprised.  I never liked Squire Carter.  He always seemed to me to be a selfish man.”

“He has certainly acted selfishly toward us.”

“Does he know of your poverty?”

“Yes.  Only two weeks since, in a fit of despair, I wrote to him for help.  Here is his answer.”

She handed a letter to Andy.  He instantly recognized the handwriting of the magnate of Arden.

“Shall I read it?” he asked.