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