"The church is the place for him,
Miss Sampson."

"Anyway," Johnny said, crossly, "I _will not_ give any of my apples
back. They're mine."

"How do you make that out?" said Mr. Smith. (And in an undertone to Miss
Lydia, "No fool, eh?")

"Because I picked 'em up," said Johnny.

"Well, here's a quarter," said his grandfather, putting his hand in his
pocket.

Johnny took the coin with an air of satisfaction, but even as he slid it
into his pocket he took it out again.

"Looky here," he said. "I thought I'd buy a pony with it, but I don't
mind paying you for your apples--" And he held out the quarter.

Mr. Smith laughed as he had not laughed for a long time. "You're a
judge of horseflesh!" he said, and walked off, switching his tail behind
him.

[Illustration: "I WILL NOT GIVE ANY OF MY APPLES BACK. THEY'RE MINE"]

The story-book plot should begin here--the rich grandfather meets the
unacknowledged grandchild, loves him, and makes him his heir--and, of
course, incidentally, showers his largess upon the poor and virtuous
lady who has cared for the little foundling; so everybody lives happy
and dies wealthy. This intelligent arrangement of fiction might have
been carried out if only Miss Lydia had behaved differently! But about
two years later her behavior--

"She's put a spoke in my wheel!" Mr. Smith told himself, blankly. It was
when Johnny was eight that the spoke blocked the grandfather's
progress. . . . He had gradually grown to know the boy very well, and,
after much backing and filling in his own mind, decided to adopt him. He
did not reach this decision easily, for there were risks in such an
arrangement; resemblances might develop, and people might put two and
two together! However, each time he decided that the risk was too great,
a glimpse of Johnny--stealing a ride by hanging on behind his
grandfather's victoria, or going in swimming in deeper water than
some of the older boys were willing to essay, or, once, blacking another
fellow's eye--such a glimpse of his own flesh and blood gave him
courage. Courage gained the day when his grandson had scarlet fever and
William King, meeting him after a call at Miss Lydia's, happened to say
that Johnny was a pretty sick child. The new Mr. Smith felt his heart
under his spreading white beard contract sharply.

"Sick! Very sick? Good God! the wet hen won't know how to take care of
him!" His alarm was so obvious that Doctor King looked at him in
surprise.

"Yo