conversation between himself and his father a few days before he
left home.

"Is 'Bella going to pay your way through?" asked his father,
looking at him severely--but he looked severely at every one
except Hampden's gentle-voiced mother.

"No, sir." The son's voice was clear.

"Is your mother?"

"No, sir."

"Have you got money put by?"

"Four hundred dollars."

"Is that enough?"

"It'll give me time for a long look around."

The old man drew a big, rusty pocketbook from the inside pocket
of the old-fashioned, flowered-velvet waistcoat he wore even when
he fed the pigs. He counted out upon his knee ten
one-hundred-dollar bills. He held them toward his son.
"That'll have to do you," he said. "That's all you'll get."

"No, thank you," replied Hampden. "I wish no favors from
anybody."