Leaving Ben for a time we will go back to Brooklyn and make the reader better acquainted with the family of Frank Mordaunt, the newsboy whom Ben had so generously assisted.

Mrs. Mordaunt and her two boys occupied an upper tenement in one of the obscure streets of Brooklyn, about a mile from Fulton Ferry. Frank’s earnings were their chief dependence, as needlework is poorly paid, especially when it is done for one of the cheap clothing houses.

At seven o’clock Frank came home from New York, where he had been selling evening papers.

“How much did you make, Frank?” asked Alvin, meeting his older brother on the sidewalk.

“Forty-six cents. I didn’t do as well as usual.”

“I wish mother would let me sell papers, too.”

“You are only nine years old, Alvin.”

“I am old enough to sell papers.”

“It is a poor business, Alvin. I hope you will never have to do it.” By this time Frank had ascended the stairs and had entered the humble room occupied by his mother.

“Frank, will you go to the baker’s and get a loaf of bread?”

“Let me go!” said Alvin.

“Very well! Here are ten cents. Now come back directly.”

“Rent day is near at hand,” said Mrs. Mordaunt anxiously.

“Yes, mother, I think we shall be ready.”

“I went to the clothing store to-day, Frank, and they told me that business was dull and they might not have any more for me to do for about four weeks.”

“Oh, well, we’ll try to get along, mother,” said Frank, with forced cheerfulness.

“It is such a contrast to our former way of living,” said his mother sadly.

“True. If father had not made such unwise investments we should manage very comfortably.”

“Doubtless he acted for the best, as he viewed it.”

“Don’t think I am blaming him, mother. But I’ll tell you what is tantalizing. We are heirs to a property of—how much is it?” “Your cousin Edwin has ten thousand dollars a year. Should he die, this is to be divided between Basil Wentworth and our family.”

“I wouldn’t for the world have Edwin die, but if during his life he would give us one thousand dollars, or even half that sum, how much it would lighten our cares.”

“Yes, Frank,” sighed Mrs. Mordaunt.

“Do you know where Basil is?”

“He may be in New York.”

“And you have an uncle who is rich?”

“Yes; Henry Anderson.”

“They cannot know how poor we are.”

“No, Frank. I shrink from letting them know. I don’t want to be considered a beggar.”

“Nor I, mother. Yet if I were in their places and had poor relations, I am sure I should want to relieve them.”

“Yes, Frank, but all are not alike. I am afraid we shall receive little outside aid.”

Three days later the landlord called for the rent. In spite of all they could do they had been unable to make up the necessary amount. It was a dollar short.

“Mr. Grubb,” said Mrs. Mordaunt, in a tone of apology, “I can pay you within a dollar. If you will kindly——” “That won’t do, Mrs. Mordaunt,” said the landlord gruffly. “It seems to me all my tenants are short this month.”

“I am very sorry, but Frank will call at your office by the middle of next week, and give you the balance.”

“But why don’t you pay it now, that is what I want to know.”

“For the simple reason that I have not got it, Mr. Grubb.”

“Then you ought to have it. You appear to be very independent, Mrs. Mordaunt.”

“I don’t know what you infer that from. I feel very far from independent, I can assure you.”

“That doesn’t pay my rent.”

“I will do as I promised, Mr. Grubb.”

“And I will give you just twenty-four hours to pay the extra dollar in. I don’t relish being imposed upon.”

And the landlord, after receiving what the widow had to pay, left the room in a huff, slamming the door behind him.

Frank had listened to the colloquy in silent indignation.

“I should like to pitch the man down-stairs,” he said.

“You must neither do nor say anything rash, my son. Remember we may need to ask his forbearance to-morrow. I am afraid we can’t get together the dollar he requires by that time.”

At this moment the postman’s whistle was heard below.

“Go down, Alvin, and see if there is a letter for us,” said his mother.

Alvin returned in a minute with an envelope in his hand.

“It has a funny stamp on it,” he said.

“Is the letter for me?”

“No; it is for Frank.”

“And mailed in London? It must be from Ben Bruce,” said Frank with interest.

He opened the letter, when two pieces of paper slipped out and fell to the floor.

Alvin picked them up.

“What is this?” he asked. “See what funny pieces of paper.”

“They are Bank of England pound notes,” said Mrs. Mordaunt joyfully.

“Are they money? What funny money?”

“The two are worth ten dollars. Heaven be thanked! It relieves us from our present troubles. What does Ben say?”

This was the letter which Frank read aloud. It was dated at Morley’s Hotel.

“Dear Frank:

“Well, I have been in London now for three days, and I am beginning to enjoy myself. My patroness, or adopted mother, as I am instructed to call her, is very kind and provides me liberally with pocket money. I will slip into this letter two one-pound notes, which I think you will find a use for. Don’t think too much of it. All my wants are supplied, and I can spare it just as well as not. I haven’t forgotten though I am living in luxury now, that I have been a poor newsboy on the Bowery, and at times haven’t known where my next rent money was coming from.

“You will expect me to tell you something about my voyage. Well, it was a very pleasant one, and I wasn’t seasick at all. You will be very much su’prised when I tell you that a young fellow that shared my stateroom with me is the younger son of an English earl—the Earl of Bentley. His name is Cyril Augustus Bentley. I must tell you also that I became very well acquainted with the Earl and Countess, who were also on board, and who appeared to form quite a liking for me. I am even invited to visit them at Bentley Hall, and go in about a week and a half. Cyril was urgent to have me come, and his parents seemed entirely willing to invite me. I presume I shall meet a good many people of title there, but I shan’t forget that I am an American boy, and have reason to feel proud of my birth. I feel quite as much at home with the Earl as I would with an American gentleman, and more so than I would with some.

“Of course my adopted mother is quite proud of the attention I am receiving from Cyril’s family, and I fancy she would have liked to receive an invitation herself. But for some reason the invitation was limited to me—I think it is on that account that my allowance has been increased, and that’s why I am able to send you the two pounds.

“I sometimes ask myself whether it is really Ben Bruce, the Bowery newsboy, who is about to be a guest in an earl’s family. I am sure that in my case truth is more wonderful than romance. I sometimes wander back in thought to my country home, and my miserly old stepfather, Jacob Winter, who wanted to bind me apprentice to a shoemaker. I don’t think he would believe it if I should write about the people I am associating with.

“I don’t know how long my prosperity is going to last, but I shall try to save a little money, so that, if I am suddenly cast upon the world, I may have a little fund to draw from. I must tell you that I have had presented to me an elegant gold watch, for which my patroness paid fifty pounds in a crack jeweler’s store in Regent Street. The plain silver watch I have laid by, and when I go back to America I shall ask your acceptance of it, as I believe you have no watch.

“Well, it is getting late, and I am tired. I hope this letter will reach you safely, on account of the remittance. After finishing this letter I must write a few lines to Cyril.

“Your sincere friend,

“Ben Bruce.”

“Ben is a trump, mother,” said Frank, his face aglow.

“He’s a friend worth having. Now we can await Mr. Grubb’s call without anxiety.”