oom, and the fire, instead of roaring and
blazing, smouldered a few moments and finally died out. He kindled it
again, opened the windows to let in the air, but it would not burn. He
got down on his knees and blew till he was out of breath, got his eyes
filled with smoke, which made the tears roll down his cheeks. The shop
was a mere box of a building, with a low roof; so he climbed up and
looked into the chimney and found it stuffed with newspapers. Pulling
them out, he saw a crumpled piece of writing-paper. He smoothed it out.
"Ah! what is this?" said he; and, putting on his spectacles, he read,
"North 69 deg. East, 140 rods to a stake; South 87 deg. West, 50 rods to an
oak-tree."

"That is Paul Parker's figuring, I reckon. I always knew that Paul loved
fun, but I didn't think he would do this!" said Mr. Leatherby to
himself, more in sorrow than in anger.

"Good morning, Mr. Leatherby," said Philip, coming up at that moment.
"What is the matter with your chimney?"

"Some of you boys have been playing a trick upon me."

"Who, I should like to know, is there in New Hope mean enough to do
that?" Philip asked.

"Whose figuring do you call that?" Mr. Leatherby asked, presenting the
paper.

"Paul Parker's, as sure as I am alive! You ought to expose him, Mr.
Leatherby."

"I don't like to say anything against him. I always liked him; but I
didn't think he would cut up such a shine as this," Mr. Leatherby
replied.

"Appearances are deceptive. It won't do for me to say anything against
Paul, for people might say I was envious; but if I were you, Mr.
Leatherby, I'd put him over the road," said Philip, walking on.

Mr. Leatherby thought the matter over all day, as he sat in his dingy
shop, which was only a few rods from Mr. Chrome's, where Paul was
painting wagons, singing snatches of songs, and psalms and hymns. Mr.
Leatherby loved to hear him. It made the days seem shorter. It rested
him when he was tired, cheered him when he was discouraged. It was like
sunshine in his soul, for it made him happy. Thinking it over, and
hearing Paul's voice so round, clear, full, and sweet, he couldn't make
up his mind to tell anybody of the little joke. "After all, he didn't
mean anything in particular, only to have a little fun with me. Boys
will be boys,"--and so Mr. Leatherby, kind old man that he was,
determined to keep it all to himself.

When Paul passed by the shop on his way home at night, he said, "Good
evening, Mr. Leat