ted
the letter?" So he spoke out freely to his father.

"All right, father; the letter is on its way to Ohio."

Unfortunately his father had not noticed his hesitation, was
satisfied, and asked no further questions.

Again George checked the monitions of his conscience. Again he said
to himself, "It's only a trifle." He had yet to learn that no duty
is a trifle.

Weeks passed, and there was no acknowledgment of the money. At last
a letter arrived from Mr. Reid to Mr. Pratt, requesting him, if
convenient, to pay the two hundred dollars promised to him some
weeks before.

Mr. Reid was a poor man, to whom two hundred dollars was an
important sum.

Mr. Pratt again questioned his son, and was again assured that the
money had been sent, and wrote to Mr. Reid accordingly, advising him
to inquire at the post office.

There happened to be a young man in the office, by the name of Harry
Brown, whose mother was a widow. She was poor, and a stranger in the
town. Her son had obtained his place on account of his quick
intelligence, and because he could also write a very good hand.
Strong suspicions fell upon him. He was questioned about the letter,
and at last Mr. Reid accused him of the theft.

The young man's indignation was uncontrollable; he turned white with
anger; he could not speak; he stammered and clenched his fists, and
at last burst into tears and left the office.

All this was taken for the agony of detected guilt and neither the
postmaster nor Mr. Reid attempted to stop him, for neither of them
wished to have him punished, and they hoped to recover the money by
gentler means.

We will now change the scene. Let us enter this small, neat cottage.
There are but two rooms on the floor. One is kitchen and parlor, the
other a bed room. A sort of ladder in one corner intimates that in
the small attic is also a sleeping place. A small table is spread
for two people; it is very clean and nice, but every thing that you
see indicates poverty. An old woman, with a sweet but sorrowful
countenance, sits by the small window, looking anxiously out of it
for some one who you might suppose was to share her simple meal with
her, which stood nicely covered up at the fire, awaiting his
arrival. She is talking to herself.

"One treasure is yet left me in this world--my noble, beautiful,
brave son. God bless him; for him I am willing to live. There he
comes; how fast he runs! but how red and heated he looks! What is
the matter