r mother has mourned for you so long. She will be
overjoyed to see you again."

When Mr. Abercrombie came home, his new brother-in-law was introduced to
him. He received Ben cordially, and in a way to make him feel at home.
In the course of the morning Mr. Sampson called, and Ben was introduced
to him.

"There's something in your brother's voice that sounds familiar," he
said to Mrs. Abercrombie. "I think I must have met him before."

"He has not been with us for some years," said Mrs. Abercrombie, who did
not care to reveal that Ben was a returned prodigal.

"Probably I am deceived," said Mr. Sampson.

Ben, however, knew that Mr. Sampson had good cause to remember him. He
was afraid the servant who had brought him his breakfast some months
before in the basement might remember him; but there was no danger of
that. She never dreamed of associating the young gentleman, her
mistress's brother, with the ragged and dirty boy who had brought the
valise for Master Charles.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

On Sunday evening, Ben, in company with his sister, her husband, and
Charles, attended a sacred concert in Steinway Hall. As he stepped
within the vestibule, he saw two street boys outside, whom he knew well.
Their attire was very similar to that which he had himself worn until
the day before. They looked at Ben, but never thought of identifying him
with the baggage-smasher with whom they had often bunked together.

"See what it is," thought Ben, "to be well dressed and have fashionable
friends."

As he sat in a reserved seat but a little distance from the platform,
surrounded by well-dressed people, he was sometimes tempted to doubt
whether he was the same boy who a few days before was wandering about
the streets, a friendless outcast. The change was so complete and
wonderful that he seemed to himself a new boy. But he enjoyed the
change. It seemed a good deal pleasanter resting in the luxurious
bedchamber, which he shared with Charles at his sister's house, than the
chance accommodations to which he had been accustomed.

On Monday he started for Philadelphia, on his journey home.

We will precede him.

Mrs. Brandon sat in an arm-chair before the fire, knitting. She was not
old, but care and sorrow had threaded her dark hair with silver, and on
her brow there were traces of a sorrow patiently borne, but none the
less deeply felt. She had never recovered from the loss of her son. Her
daughter