``The Widder Fowler is dead,'' remarked DeaconPinkerton, at the supper table. ``She died this afternoon.''

　　``I suppose she won't leave anything,'' said Mrs.

　　Pinkerton.

　　``No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and thatis all she has.''

　　``What will become of the children?''

　　``As I observed, day before yesterday, they will beconstrained to find a refuge in the poorhouse.''

　　``What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me,father?''

　　``I am not able to conjecture what Samuel wouldbe likely to observe, my son.''

　　``He observed that Frank Fowler said he wouldn'tgo to the poorhouse.''

　　``Ahem!'' coughed the deacon. ``The boy will notbe consulted.''

　　``That's what I say, father,'' said Tom, who desiredto obtain his father's co-operation. ``You'll makehim go to the poorhouse, won't you?''

　　``I shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if itshould be necessary, my son.''

　　``He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertonsin the world couldn't make him go to the poorhouse.''

　　``I will constrain him,'' said the deacon.

　　``I would if I were you, father,'' said Tom, elatedat the effect of his words. ``Just teach him a lesson.''

　　``Really, deacon, you mustn't be too hard upon thepoor boy,'' said his better-hearted wife. ``He's gottrouble enough on him.''

　　``I will only constrain him for his good, Jane. Inthe poorhouse he will be well provided for.''

　　Meanwhile another conversation respecting ourhero and his fortunes was held at Sam Pomeroy'shome. It was not as handsome as the deacon's, forMr. Pomeroy was a poor man, but it was a happyone, nevertheless, and Mr. Pomeroy, limited as werehis means, was far more liberal than the deacon.

　　``I pity Frank Fowler,'' said Sam, who was warm-hearted and sympathetic, and a strong friend ofFrank. ``I don't know what he will do.''

　　``I suppose his mother left nothing.''

　　``I understood,'' said Mr. Pomeroy, ``that DeaconPinkerton holds a mortgage on her furniture.''

　　``The deacon wants to send Frank and his sisterto the poorhouse.''

　　``That would be a pity.''

　　``I should think so; but Frank positively says hewon't go.''

　　``I am afraid there isn't anything else for him.

　　To be sure, he may get a chance to work in a shopor on a farm, but Grace can't support herself.''

　　``Father, I want to ask you a favor.''

　　``What is it, Sam?''

　　``Won't you invite Frank and his sister to comeand stay here a week?''

　　``Just as your mother says.''

　　``I say yes. The poor children will be quitewelcome. If we were rich enough they might stay withus all the time.''

　　``When Frank comes here I will talk over hisaffairs with him,'' said Mr. Pomeroy. ``Perhaps wecan think of some plan for him.''

　　``I wish you could, father.''

　　``In the meantime, you can invite him and Graceto come and stay with us a week, or a fortnight.

　　Shall we say a fortnight, wife?''

　　``With all my heart.''

　　``All right, father. Thank you.''

　　Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showedhow strongly his own feelings were enlisted in favorof its acceptance. Frank grasped his hand.

　　``Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend,'' he said.

　　``I hadn't begun to think of what we were to do,Grace and I.''

　　``You'll come, won't you?''

　　``You are sure that it won't trouble your mother,Sam?''

　　``She is anxious to have you come.''

　　``Then I'll come. I haven't formed any plans yet,but I must as soon--as soon as mother is buried.

　　I think I can earn my living somehow. One thingI am determined about--I won't go to the poorhouse.''

　　The funeral was over. Frank and Grace walkedback to the little house, now their home no longer.

　　They were to pack up a little bundle of clothes andgo over to Mr. Pomeroy's in time for supper.

　　When Frank had made up his bundle, urged bysome impulse, he opened a drawer in his mother'sbureau. His mind was full of the story she hadtold him, and he thought it just possible that hemight find something to throw additional light uponhis past history. While exploring the contents ofthe drawer he came to a letter directed to him inhis mother's well-known handwriting. He openedit hastily, and with a feeling of solemnity, read asfollows:

　　``My Dear Frank: In the lower drawer, wrappedin a piece of brown paper, you will find two goldeagles, worth twenty dollars. You will need themwhen I am gone. Use them for Grace and yourself.

　　I saved these for my children. Take them, Frank,for I have nothing else to give you. The furniturewill pay the debt I owe Deacon Pinkerton. Thereought to be something over, but I think he will takeall. I wish I had more to leave you, dear Frank,but the God of the Fatherless will watch over you--to Him I commit you and Grace. Your affectionatemother, RUTH FOWLER.''

　　Frank, following the instructions of the letter,found the gold pieces and put them carefully intohis pocketbook. He did not mention the letter toGrace at present, for he knew not but Deacon Pinkertonmight lay claim to the money to satisfy his debtif he knew it.

　　``I am ready, Frank,'' said Grace, entering theroom. ``Shall we go?''

　　``Yes, Grace. There is no use in stopping here anylonger.''

　　As he spoke he heard the outer door open, and aminute later Deacon Pinkerton entered the room.

　　None of the deacon's pompousness was abated ashe entered the house and the room.

　　``Will you take a seat?'' said our hero, with theair of master of the house.

　　``I intended to,'' said the deacon, not acknowledginghis claim. ``So your poor mother is gone?''

　　``Yes, sir,'' said Frank, briefly.

　　``We must all die,'' said the deacon, feeling that itwas incumbent on him to say something religious.

　　``Ahem! your mother died poor? She left no property?''

　　``It was not her fault.''

　　``Of course not. Did she mention that I hadadvanced her money on the furniture?''

　　``My mother told me all about it, sir.''

　　``Ahem! You are in a sad condition. But you willbe taken care of. You ought to be thankful thatthere is a home provided for those who have nomeans.''

　　``What home do you refer to, Deacon Pinkerton?''

　　asked Frank, looking steadily in the face of his visitor.

　　``I mean the poorhouse, which the town generouslyprovides for those who cannot support themselves.''

　　This was the first intimation Grace had receivedof the possibility that they would be sent to such ahome, and it frightened her.

　　``Oh, Frank!'' she exclaimed, ``must we go to thepoorhouse?''

　　``No, Grace; don't be frightened,'' said Frank,soothingly. ``We will not go.''

　　``Frank Fowler,'' said the deacon, sternly, ``ceaseto mislead your sister.''

　　``I am not misleading her, sir.''

　　``Did you not tell her that she would not be obligedto go to the poorhouse?''

　　``Yes, sir.''

　　``Then what do you mean by resisting my authority?''

　　``You have no authority over us. We are not paupers,''

　　and Frank lifted his head proudly, and lookedsteadily in the face of the deacon.

　　``You are paupers, whether you admit it or not.''

　　``We are not,'' said the boy, indignantly.

　　``Where is your money? Where is your property?''

　　``Here, sir,'' said our hero, holding out his hands.

　　``I have two strong hands, and they will help memake a living for my sister and myself.''

　　``May I ask whether you expect to live here anduse my furniture?''

　　``I do not intend to, sir. I shall ask no favors ofyou, neither for Grace nor myself. I am going toleave the house. I only came back to get a fewclothes. Mr. Pomeroy has invited Grace and me tostay at his house for a few days. I haven't decidedwhat I shall do afterward.''

　　``You will have to go to the poorhouse, then. Ihave no objection to your making this visit first. Itwill be a saving to the town.''

　　``Then, sir, we will bid you good-day. Grace, letus go.''