had
grown upon him so rapidly that he did not work at the stable more than
one day in three. For two months, Major Phillips had been threatening
to discharge him; and nothing but kindly consideration for his family
had prevented him from doing so.

"Have you seen Joe to-day?" asked Harry of one of the ostlers, who
came into the room soon after the departure of the little girl.

"No, and don't want to see him," replied Abner, testily; for, in Joe's
absence, his work had to be done by the other ostlers, who did not
feel very kindly towards him.

"His little girl has just been here after him."

"Very likely he hasn't been home for a week," added Abner. "I should
think his family would be very thankful if they never saw him again.
He is a nuisance to himself and everybody else."

"Where does he live?"

"Just up in Avery Street--in a ten-footer there."

"The little girl said her mother was very sick."

"I dare say. She is always sick; and I don't much wonder. Joe Flint is
enough to make any one sick. He has been drunk about two-thirds of the
time for two months."

"I don't see how his family get along."

"Nor I, either."

After Abner had warmed himself, he left the room. Harry was haunted by
the sad look and desponding tones of the poor lame girl. It was a
bitter cold evening; and what if Joe's family were suffering with the
cold and hunger! It was sad to think of such a thing; and Harry was
deeply moved.

"She hoped I would be a good boy. She is very sick now, and perhaps
she will die," said Harry to himself. "What would she do, if she were
here now?"

He knew very well what she would do, and he determined to do it
himself. His heart was so deeply moved by the picture of sorrow and
suffering with which his imagination had invested the home of the
intemperate ostler that it required no argument to induce him to go.

But he must go prepared to do something. However sweet and consoling
may be the sympathy of others to those in distress, it will not warm
the chilled limbs or feed the hungry mouths; and Harry thanked God
then that he had not spent his money foolishly upon gewgaws and
gimcracks, or in gratifying a selfish appetite.

After assuring himself that no one was approaching, he jumped on his
bedstead, and reaching up into a hole in the board ceiling of the
room, he took out a large wooden pill box, which was nearly filled
with various silver coins, from a five-cent piece to a half dollar.
Putting th