his age. When he uttered his last sentence, and
made a parting bow, there was subdued applause, and brought a flush of
gratification to the cheek of our young hero.

"This is the last exercise," said the teacher "except one. At the
commencement of the term, I offered a prize to the scholar that would do
the best from that time till the close of the school. I will now award
the prize. Harry Walton, come forward."

Harry rose from his seat, his cheeks flushed again with gratification,
and advanced to where the teacher was standing.

"Harry," said Mr. Burbank, "I have no hesitation in giving you the
prize. You have excelled all the other scholars, and it is fairly yours.
The book is not of much value, but I think you will find it interesting
and instructive. It is the life of the great American philosopher and
statesman, Benjamin Franklin. I hope you will read and profit by it, and
try like him to make your life a credit to yourself and a blessing to
mankind."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, bowing low. "I will try to do so."

There was a speech by the chairman of the school committee, in which
allusion was made to Harry and the prize, and the exercises were over.
Harry received the congratulations of his schoolmates and others with
modest satisfaction, but he was most pleased by the evident pride and
pleasure which his mother exhibited, when she, too, was congratulated
on his success. His worldly prospects were very uncertain, but he had
achieved the success for which he had been laboring, and he was happy.

CHAPTER VI. LOOKING OUT ON THE WORLD

It was not until evening that Harry had a chance to look at his prize.
It was a cheap book, costing probably not over a dollar; but except his
schoolbooks, and a ragged copy of "Robinson Crusoe," it was the only
book that our hero possessed. His father found it difficult enough to
buy him the necessary books for use in school, and could not afford to
buy any less necessary. So our young hero, who was found of reading,
though seldom able to gratify his taste, looked forward with great joy
to the pleasure of reading his new book. He did not know much about
Benjamin Franklin, but had a vague idea that he was a great man.

After his evening "chores" were done, he sat down by the table on which
was burning a solitary tallow candle, and began to read. His mother was
darning stockings, and his father had gone to the village store on an
errand.

So he began the story, a