It seemed odd to Harry to enter Mead's store, where he had been employed, merely as a customer.

Mr. Mead nodded pleasantly.

"It seems natural to see you here, Harry," he said. "Have you been berrying?"

"Yes, and I would like to sell my berries."

"Very well. You know what I pay--eight cents a quart."

"I have four quarts."

"Measure them out yourself, Harry. I will make an exception in your case, if you wish it, and give you the money for them."

Harry accepted this offer, as he did not know of what groceries his mother stood in need.

As he walked out of the store, he felt more confidence than he had done in the morning. He had not got a place, to be sure, but he had earned thirty-two cents. This was not quite half what he had been accustomed to earn at the store, but it was something.

A little way from the store, Harry passed an old man, dressed neatly, but in a well-worn suit, walking with some difficulty, with the help of a stout cane. He looked to be seventy years old, at least, and his appearance indicated that he was poor.

As Harry passed, the old man called out:

"Stop a minute, boy!"

Harry stopped, and waited respectfully to learn what the old man wanted. It is a common complaint that most boys are wanting in respect to old age, but this charge could not be brought against Harry, who was uniformly courteous to all persons older than himself.

Though he suspected the old man to be very poor, it made no difference to him.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Ross lives?" asked the stranger.

"Yes, sir. I suppose you mean Colonel Ross?"

"I believe that's what they call him. His wife is my niece."

Harry was very much surprised to hear this.

"Have you ever been there before, sir?" asked Harry.

"No; I've been living out in Illinoy. But I'm getting old, and my only daughter died last month. So I've come here to visit my niece."

"I don't believe Mrs. Ross will be very glad to see her uncle," thought Harry; "and I'm sure Philip won't."

"I will show you the way, sir, if you wish," said Harry, politely.

"I wish you would, if it isn't too much trouble," said the old man.

"Oh, no trouble at all," said Harry.

"You seem to be a very obliging boy. What is your name?"

"Harry Gilbert."

"Are your parents living?"

"My mother is living, but my father's dead--that is, we expect he is. He was a sea captain, and never came back from his last voyage."

"Did he leave your mother well off?" asked the old man, gazing attentively at Harry.

Harry thought him rather inquisitive for a stranger, but credited him with good motives, and answered, readily:

"No, sir; we are quite poor; but I have had a place where I earned four dollars a week--at the grocery store. Mr. Mead had a nephew come last week, and now I am out of work."

"That is unlucky for you."

"Yes, sir; but I shall try hard to get something else soon."

"You look like an industrious boy."

"I like to work."

"Where do you live?"

It so happened that Harry's house could be pointed out across the fields, though at least a quarter of a mile away.

"There it is," he said, pointing it out; "but, perhaps, you cannot see so far?"

"Oh, yes, I can see it."

By this time they had reached the gate of Colonel Ross, and Harry felt that he might safely leave the old man.

Out on the lawn was Philip Ross, who, with surprise and displeasure, saw Harry opening the gate for one whom he mentally designated as an old tramp.

"What do you want here?" he asked, in a tone far from courteous or respectful.

"What is your name?" asked the old man, fixing his glance on the questioner.

"My name is Philip Ross, and I am the son of Colonel Ross," answered Philip, with an air of consequence.

"Then I am your great-uncle, Philip," said the old man, surveying his young kinsman with an interest inspired by the feeling of relationship.

"My great-uncle," repeated Philip, in mingled bewilderment and dismay.

"Yes, Philip, I'm your mother's uncle, come all the way from Illinoy to visit you."

Harry was amused to see upon the face of his young antagonist a look of stupefaction.

It was a severe blow to Philip, especially in Harry's presence, to be claimed as a kinsman by a shabby, old tramp. It was upon his tongue to express a doubt as to the relationship, but he forbore.

"Is your mother at home?" asked the old man.

"You can ring the bell and see," answered Philip, deliberately turning his back and walking off.

The old man looked after him, with a shrewd glance of intelligence, but expressed no opinion of him.

"Harry," he said, turning to his young guide, "will you come with me to the door and ring the bell?"

Harry complied with his request.

The door was opened by a servant, who, on seeing the old man, said, pertly:

"We've got nothing for the likes of you," and was about to close the door on the two.

"Stop!" said Harry, in a commanding voice, for he was provoked with the girl's ill manners. "Tell Mrs. Ross that her uncle is here. I think you'd better invite him in."

"Well, I never!" said the girl, abashed. "I hope you'll excuse me, sir. Walk into the parlor, and I'll tell Mrs. Ross you are here."

"Won't you come in, Harry?" asked the old man, who seemed to have taken a liking to his young guide.

"No, thank you, sir. I shall see you again, if you are going to stay in the village."

"Thank you! you're a good boy," and the old man began to fumble in his pocket.

"Oh, no. I can't take anything," said Harry hurriedly.

Even if the old man had been rich, he would have declined compensation--much more when he looked very poor.

"Well, well! I'm much obliged to you, all the same."

Leaving Harry to find his way home, let us see what sort of reception the old man had from his niece.

Within five minutes Mrs. Ross sailed into the room.

"Why, Lucinda!" said the old man, heartily; "it's a long time since I met you."

"I do not remember ever having seen you," said Mrs. Ross, frigidly.

"I haven't seen you since you were a little girl, for I've been living away out in Illinoy. I'm your Uncle Obed--Obed Wilkins--brother of your mother."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Ross, coldly, eyeing the old man's shabby attire with something like disdain. "You must be an old man!"

"Seventy-two, Lucinda. I was born in October, while your mother was two years younger than I, and born in August. I didn't think to outlive her, seeing she was younger, but I have."

"I think it was imprudent in a man of your age coming so far," said Mrs. Ross.

"I was all alone, Lucinda. My daughter died last spring, and I wanted to be near some one that was akin to me, so I've come to see the only relations I've got left on earth."

"That's very cool," thought Mrs. Ross. "He expects us to support him, I suppose. He looks as poor as poverty. He ought to have gone to the poorhouse in his old home."

To be sure, she would not like to have had it known that she had an uncle in the poorhouse; but, so far away as Illinois, it would not have been known to any of her Eastern friends, and wouldn't matter so much.

"I will speak to Colonel Ross about it, Mr. Wilkins," she said, coldly. "You can stay to supper, and see him then."

"Don't call me Mr. Wilkins. I'm your Uncle Obed," said the old man.

"You may be my uncle, but I am not sufficiently acquainted with you yet for that," she answered. "You can come upstairs, if you feel tired, and lie down till supper time."

"Thank you, I will," said Uncle Obed.

The offer of Mrs. Ross was dictated not so much by kindness as by the desire to get her shabby uncle well out of the way, and have a chance for a private conference with her husband, whom she expected every minute.

If the unannounced visit of Uncle Obed may be thought to need an excuse, it can easily be found. For years, when Mrs. Ross was a girl, she and her mother were mainly supported by the now despised uncle, without whom they might have become dependent upon charity.

It was not a time that Mrs. Ross, in her present luxury, liked to think about, and for years she had not communicated with the uncle to whom she owed so much.

Full of charity himself, he was unconscious of her lack of gratitude, and supposed that her failure to write was owing to lack of time. He had come in good faith, when bereft of his daughter, to renew acquaintance with his niece, never dreaming how unwelcome he would be. Philip's rudeness impressed him unpleasantly, but, then, the boy had never seen him before, and that was some excuse.