"My brother was allus free with his money. He wasn't so keerful as you and I be."

"I should think not, indeed. We don't begin to spend half as much as he did, and now he comes upon us to support his child."

"It don't seem right," said Pelatiah.

"Right? It's outrageous!" exclaimed Mrs. Kavanagh, energetically. "I declare I have no patience with such a man. It would only be right to send this boy Frank to the poor-house."

"The neighbors would talk," protested Pelatiah, who was half inclined to accept his wife's view, but was more sensitive to the criticism of the community in which he lived.

"Let 'em talk!" said his more independent helpmate. "It isn't right that this boy should use up the property that we have sc.r.a.ped together for his cousin Jonathan."

"We must keep him for a while, Hannah; but I'll get rid of him as soon I can consistently."

With this Mrs. Kavanagh had to be satisfied; but, during her nephew's stay of two months in the farm-house, she contrived to make him uncomfortable by harsh criticisms of his dead father, whom he had tenderly loved.

"You must have lived very extravagant," she said, "or your father would have left a handsome property."

"I don't think we did, Aunt Hannah."

"You father kept a carriage,--didn't he?"

"Yes; he had considerable riding to do."

"How much help did he keep?"

"Only one servant in the kitchen, and a stable-boy."

"There was no need of a boy. You could have done the work in the stable."

"I was kept at school."

"Oh, of course!" sneered his aunt. "You must be brought up as a young gentleman. Our Jonathan never had any such chances, and now you're livin' on him, or about the same. I suppose you kept an extravagant table too. What did you generally have for breakfast?"

So Aunt Hannah continued her catechising, much to Frank's discomfort.

She commented severely upon the wastefulness of always having pastry for dinner.

"We can't afford it," she said, emphatically; "but then again we don't mean to have our Jonathan beholden to anybody in case your uncle and I are cast off sudden. What did you have for dinner on Sunday?"

"Meat and pudding and ice-cream,--that is, in warm weather."

"Ice-cream!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aunt Hannah, holding up both hands. "No wonder your father didn't leave nothin'. Why, we don't have ice-cream more'n once a year, and now we can't afford to have it at all, since we've got another mouth to feed."

"I am sorry that you have to stint yourself on my account," replied Frank, feeling rather uncomfortable.

"I suppose it's our cross," said Mrs. Kavanagh, gloomily; "but it does seem hard that we can't profit by our prudence because of your father's wasteful extravagance."

Such remarks were very disagreeable to our young hero, and it was hard for him to hear his father so criticised. He supposed they must have lived extravagantly, since it was so constantly charged by those about him, and he felt puzzled to account for his father's leaving nothing.

When, after two months, his uncle and aunt, who had deliberated upon what was best to be done, proposed to him to go to New York and try to earn his own living, he caught at the idea. He knew that he might suffer hardships in the new life that awaited him, but if he could support himself in any way he would escape from the cruel taunts to which he was now forced to listen every day. How he reached the city, and how he succeeded, my readers know. We now come to the trunk, which, some time after its reception, Frank set about examining.

He found it was filled with clothing belonging to his father. Though a part were in good condition it seemed doubtful whether they would be of much service to him. It occurred to him to examine the pockets of the coats. In one he found a common yellow envelope, bearing his father's name. Opening it, he found, to his great astonishment, that it was a certificate of railroad stock, setting forth his father's ownership of one hundred shares of the capital stock of the said railway.

Our hero was greatly excited by his discovery. This, then, was the form in which his father had invested his savings. What the shares were worth he had no idea; but he rejoiced chiefly because now he could defend his father from the charge of recklessly spending his entire income, and saving nothing. He resolved, as soon as he could find time, to visit a Wall-street broker, by whom he had occasionally been employed, and inquire the value of the stock. Two days afterwards the opportunity came, and he availed himself of it at once.

"Can you tell me the value of these shares, Mr. Glynn?" he asked.

"They are quoted to-day at one hundred and ten," answered the broker, referring to a list of the day's stock quotations.

"Do you mean that each share is worth a hundred and ten dollars?" asked Frank, in excitement.

"Certainly."

"Then the whole are worth five thousand five hundred dollars?"

"Rather more; for the last semi-annual dividend has not been collected.

To whom do they belong?"

"They did belong to my father. Now I suppose they are mine."

"Has your father's estate been administered upon?"

"Yes; but these shares had not then been found."

"Then some legal steps will be necessary before you can take possession, and dispose of them. I will give you the address of a good lawyer, and advise you to consult him at once."

Frank did so, and the lawyer wrote to Uncle Pelatiah to acquaint him with the discovery. The news created great excitement at the farm.

"Why, Frank's a rich boy!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aunt Hannah.

"And my brother wasn't so foolishly extravagant as we supposed."

"That may be; but with his salary we could have saved more."

"Perhaps we might; but these shares are worth almost six thousand dollars. That's a good deal of money, Hannah."

"So it is, Pelatiah. I'll tell you what we'd better do."

"What?"

"Invite Frank to come back and board with us. He can afford to pay handsome board, and it seems better that the money should go to us than a stranger."

"Just so, Hannah. He could board with us, and go to school."

"You'd better write and invite him to come. I allus liked the boy, and if we could have afforded it, I'd have been in favor of keepin' him for nothing."

"So would I," said his uncle; and he probably believed it, though after what had happened it will be rather difficult for the reader to credit it.

The letter was written, but Frank had no desire to return to the old farm, and the society of his uncle's family.