The summer passed slowly. Business was unusually dull even for this time of the year, and Ben’s earnings were proportionately small. Week by week he was obliged to draw from his fund in the savings bank until he had less than five dollars to his credit there.

He had not written to his mother or to Albert Graham for a considerable time, not having any good news to communicate.

How was he coming out? That was the question which he anxiously asked himself without obtaining any satisfactory answer. He began to think that he might feel compelled to pawn his watch once more, with a very remote chance of redeeming it.

It was about this time that he had a surprising adventure. He was selling papers at ten o’clock in the morning when suddenly a lady, handsomely dressed, stopped opposite him and regarded him attentively. “Will you have a morning paper, ma’am?” asked Ben.

“Yes, I will buy all you have,” was the unexpected answer.

“There are twenty-five cents’ worth,” said Ben, counting them over. It occurred to him that the lady was a philanthropist, who took this way of helping him.

“Here is a dollar. Never mind the change.”

“Thank you. You are very kind. Will you take the papers, or shall I carry them for you?”

“Never mind! Leave them in that doorway, or give them to some other newsboy. I want to employ you for a time.”

Tom Hooper happened to be passing, and Ben, considerably to Tom’s surprise, went up to him and handed him his papers.

“You can have these papers, Tom. They are a present from this lady.”

Tom accepted them with pleasure, for he felt sure of disposing of at least a part of them.

“Now,” said Ben. “I am at your service, madam.”

“Please call a cab.”

Ben complied with the lady’s request.

“Help me in,” she went on, “and get in yourself.” As the coachman closed the door she said, “Drive to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

The mysterious lady sat on the back seat and signed to Ben to place himself opposite to her.

It began to look queer to Ben. If the lady intended to employ him, it seemed odd that she should treat him on such equal terms. However, Ben was discreet, and feeling that he would know in time forebore to ask questions.

The cab stopped at the side door, or lady’s entrance.

“You may follow me,” said the lady as she paid and dismissed the cab driver.

Ben followed the lady up-stairs to a room on the second floor.

The lady opened the door and entered.

“Now sit down,” she said, “and we will have a little conversation.”

Ben seated himself in a large arm-chair and waited for developments. The lady sat down opposite him.

“Are you a good actor?” she asked.

“I acted a few weeks at the People’s Theater on the Bowery,” answered Ben.

It was the lady’s turn to look surprised.

“Is it possible?” she exclaimed. “You—a newsboy now—have been an actor?” “Yes, madam.”

“I am glad of it. But how do you happen, after such an engagement, to be reduced to selling papers in the street?”

“The play had to give place to another, and I lost my engagement. I had to live and took up selling papers for want of something better.”

“I want you to play a part in a drama of real life.”

“At what theater, madam?”

“At no theater. You are to personate my son. You are to call me mother, and your name will be Edwin Harcourt.”

“But, madam, will any harm come of it?”

“None whatever. You will be aiding the cause of justice.”

“Then I am willing.”

“I have taken the adjoining bedroom for you: go in and put on the suit of clothes you will find on the bed. Brush your hair carefully, and try to do me credit.”

Ben smiled.

“I will try to do so,” he said.

“Of course I shall see that you are well paid.”

“I have no doubt on that point. But——”

“Ask no more questions now. Dress yourself quickly, as we have a call to make.”