good son as he was, shared his mother's cares and tried to lighten
them. But in a small village like Wrayburn there are not many ways of
getting money, at any rate for a boy. There were no manufactories, as
in some large villages, and money was a scarce commodity.

Herbert had, however, one source of income. Half a dozen families,
living at some distance from the post office, employed him to bring
any letters or papers that might come for them, and for this service
he received a regular tariff of two cents for each letter, and one
cent for each paper. He was not likely to grow rich on this income,
but he felt that, though small, it was welcome.

According to custom, Herbert called at the post office on his way
home. He found a letter for Deacon Crossleigh, one for Mr. Duncan, two
for Dr. Waffit, and papers for each of the two former.

"Ten cents!" he thought with satisfaction. "Well, that is better than
nothing, though it won't buy me a new pair of pants."

He was about to leave the office, when the postmaster called after
him: "Wait a minute, Herbert; I believe there's a letter for your
mother."

Herbert returned, and received a letter bearing the following
superscription: "Mrs. Almira Carter, Wrayburn, New York."

"I hope it isn't bad news," said the postmaster. "I see it's edged
with black."

"I can't make out where it's from," said Herbert, scanning the