rris" in the boy's book.

"Here, my boy, is twenty-five cents," he said, and tore open the message,
which read as follows:--

Harrisville,--.

_Alfonso H. Harris,
Carnegie Studio, New York._

We reach Grand Central Depot at 7:10 o'clock tomorrow evening in our
new private car Alfonso. Family greetings; all well.

Reuben Harris.

Alfonso put the telegram in his pocket, completed packing his steamer
trunk, wrote a letter to his landlord, enclosing a check for the last
quarter's rent, and ran downstairs and over to the storage company, to
leave an order to call for two big trunks of artist's belongings, not
needed in Europe.

A hansom-cab took him to the Windsor Hotel, where he almost forgot to pay
his barber for a shave, such was his excitement. A little dry toast, two
soft boiled eggs, and a cup of coffee were quite sufficient, since his
appetite, usually very good, somehow had failed him.

It was now fifteen minutes to seven o'clock. In less than half an hour
Alfonso was to meet his father, mother, and sisters, and after a few days
in the metropolis, join them in an extended journey over the British
Isles, and possibly through portions of Europe.

Alfonso was the only son of Reuben Harris, a rich manufacturer of iron
and steel. His father, a man naturally of very firm will, had earnestly
longed that his only son might succeed him in business, and so increase
and perpetuate a fortune already colossal. It was a terrible struggle for
Harris senior to yield to his son's strong inclination to study art, but
once the father had been won over, no doubt in part by the mother's
strong love for her only boy, he assured Alfonso that he would be loyal
to him, so long as his son was loyal to his profession. This had given
the boy courage, and he had improved every opportunity while in New York
to acquaint himself with art, and his application to study had been such
that he was not only popular with his fellow artists, but they recognized
that he possessed great capacity for painstaking work.

Alfonso jumped into a coupe, having ordered a carriage to follow him to
the Grand Central Station. It was ten minutes yet before the express was
due. Nervously he puffed at his unlighted cigar, wishing he had a match;
in fact, his nerves were never more unstrung. It was a happy surprise,
and no doubt his youthful vanity was elated, that his father should have
named his new palace car "Alfonso." At least it convinced him