"Here, my boy, is twenty-five cents," he said, and tore open the message,
which read as follows:--

Harrisville,--.

_Alfonso H. Harris,
Carnegie Studio, New York._

We reach Grand Central Depot at 7:10 o'clock tomorrow evening in our
new private car Alfonso. Family greetings; all well.

Reuben Harris.

Alfonso put the telegram in his pocket, completed packing his steamer
trunk, wrote a letter to his landlord, enclosing a check for the last
quarter's rent, and ran downstairs and over to the storage company, to
leave an order to call for two big trunks of artist's belongings, not
needed in Europe.

A hansom-cab took him to the Windsor Hotel, where he almost forgot to pay
his barber for a shave, such was his excitement. A little dry toast, two
soft boiled eggs, and a cup of coffee were quite sufficient, since his
appetite, usually very good, somehow had failed him.

It was now fifteen minutes to seven o'clock. In less than half an hour
Alfonso was to meet his father, mother, and sisters, and after a few days
in the metropolis, join them in an extended journey over the British
Isles, and possibly through portions of Europe.

Alfonso was the only son of Reuben Harris, a rich manufacturer of iron