the richest man in the neighborhood, an' his people live in grand
style, he's no fit companion for Masther Tom Norris, I'm thinkin'."



II.

Tom lost no time now in getting home. A little later he had entered a
spacious brick house on Florence Street, deposited the milk can on the
kitchen table, set the cook a laughing by some droll speech, and,
passing on, sought his mother in her cheerful sitting-room.

"Why, my son, what delayed you so long?" she inquired, folding away her
sewing; for it was becoming too dark to work.

"Oh, I went home with Missis Barry!" he answered, with the
matter-of-fact air with which he might have said that he had been
escorting some particular friend of the family.

Mrs. Norris smiled and drew nearer to the bright fire which burned in
the grate. Tom slipped into a seat beside her upon the wide,
old-fashioned sofa, which was just the place for one of those cosy
twilight chats with mother, which boys especially love so much, and the
memory of which gleams, star-like, through the mists of years, exerting
even far greater influence than she dreams of upon their lives. Tom
considered this quiet half hour the pleasantest of the day. Mrs.
Norris, with a gentle wisdom worthy of wider imitation, encouraged him
to talk to her about whatever interested him. She was seldom too tired
or too preoccupied at this time to hear of the mechanism of the
steam-engine, the mysteries of the printing-press, or the feats that