“I shall be delighted to come,” said Frank, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

By this time they had reached the church, which was distant but a few rods from the hotel.  They had just turned the corner of the road, when the clang of a bell was heard.

“I suppose that is my breakfast-bell,” said the young man.  “It finds me with a good appetite.  Good morning, Frank.  I will expect you, then, this evening.”

Frank returned home, feeling quite pleased with his invitation.

“I wish,” thought he, “that I might see considerable of Mr. Morton.  I could learn a great deal from him, he has seen so much.”

His road led him past the house of Squire Haynes.  John was sauntering about the yard with his hands in his pockets.

“Good morning, John,” said Frank, in a pleasant voice.

John did not seem inclined to respond to this politeness.  On seeing Frank he scowled, and without deigning to make a reply turned his back and went into the house.  He had not forgotten the last occasion on which they had met in the woods, when Frank defeated his cruel designs upon poor Pomp.  There was not much likelihood that he would forget it very soon.

“I can’t understand John,” thought Frank.  “The other boys will get mad and get over it before the next day; John broods over it for weeks.  I really believe he hates me.  But, of course, I couldn’t act any differently.  I wasn’t going to stand by and see Pomp beaten.  I should do just the same again.”

The day wore away, and in the evening Frank presented himself at the hotel, and inquired for Mr. Morton.  He was ushered upstairs, and told to knock at the door of a room in the second story.

His knock was answered by the young man in person, who shook his hand with a pleasant smile, and invited him in.

“I am glad to see you, Frank,” he said, very cordially.

“And I am much obliged to you for inviting me, Mr. Morton.”

They sat down together beside the table, and conversed on a variety of topics.  Frank had numberless questions to ask about foreign scenes and countries, all of which were answered with the utmost readiness.  Henry Morton brought out a large portfolio containing various pictures, some on note-paper, representing scenes in different parts of Europe.

The evening wore away only too rapidly for Frank.  He had seldom passed two hours so pleasantly.  At half-past nine, he rose, and said half-regretfully, “I wish you were going to live in the village this winter, Mr. Morton.”

The young man smiled.  “Such is my intention, Frank,” he said quietly.

“Shall you stay?” said Frank joyfully.  “I suppose you will board here?”

“I should prefer a quieter boarding-place.  Can you recommend one?”

Frank hesitated.

“Where,” continued Mr. Morton, “I could enjoy the companionship of an intelligent young gentleman of your age?”