Ben and his guardian had a smooth and pleasant return voyage.

“Do you need any money?” asked Basil when they landed. “As your guardian, as well as the executor of Mrs. Harcourt’s estate, I am ready to meet any reasonable demands.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wentworth. I have two hundred dollars with me, and this will answer for the present.”

“Where do you expect to stay?”

“General Flint insists upon my being his guest at the Fifth Avenue Hotel for a week. When he goes back to Iowa I shall find a home in a private house.”

The first evening of his return Ben called at Mrs. Robinson’s lodging house to see his literary friend Sylvanus Snodgrass.

The novelist was sincerely glad to see him.

“Welcome home, Ben!” he said. “I have missed you a great deal. And how is the lady who took you to Europe with her?” “She is dead, Mr. Snodgrass,” replied Ben gravely.

“And you are thrown upon the world again? Do you propose to go back to your old business?”

“No,” answered Ben with a smile. “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

“Did the lady provide for you?”

“She left me nearly forty thousand dollars.”

“Why, you are rich!” exclaimed Sylvanus. “It is truly a romance in real life. Would you be willing to have me weave your story into a serial for the Weekly Bugle?”

“I would a little rather not,” answered Ben. “Mrs. Harcourt has relatives, and it might not be agreeable for them.”

“Of course I won’t without your permission. Have you thought how you will invest your money?”

“No; I shall leave that to my guardian, Mr. Basil Wentworth.”

“I could suggest an investment that would double, nay treble your fortune in five years.”

“What is it?” asked Ben.

“Start a literary weekly, after the style of the Bugle. That paper pays immensely.”

“But I don’t know anything about the publication of weekly papers.” “I do. Listen, Ben,” said the novelist with enthusiasm. “You could count upon my assistance and co-operation. I would assume the editorship, and agree to have a story from my pen running constantly. Gloriana Podd would, I am sure, be glad to write for us. I know just what the public want, and between ourselves, I think the editor of the Bugle is often at fault. If it was in my hands I would make a good deal more out of it.”

“I am afraid, Mr. Snodgrass, I should hardly favor such an investment, and I am sure my guardian would not. He says he can invest the money so as to earn five per cent.”

“What’s five per cent.?” asked Sylvanus scornfully.

“Five per cent. on my legacy will make nearly two thousand dollars a year.”

“That is good, of course. I wish I had it, but you might make a good deal more by following my advice.”

“I don’t believe in going into any business which I don’t understand, Mr. Snodgrass. I hope you have been prosperous while I have been away.”

“Well, I can’t complain. I retain my popularity with American readers, but the publishers don’t appreciate me as they should. I recently asked the publisher of the Bugle if he wouldn’t give me twenty-five dollars more for my serials, but he declined. He intimated,” continued Mr. Snodgrass with tragic scorn, “that he could get along without me, and could easily supply my place. Did you ever hear of such ingratitude?”

“I am afraid he doesn’t appreciate you, Mr. Snodgrass.”

“No, Ben, he doesn’t. I furnish the brains and he furnishes the capital. That’s about the way the matter stands.”

“You get enough to do?”

“Well, yes, but the prices are so low, and it costs a good deal to live in New York, even in the humble style which I keep up. I am owing Mrs. Robinson for two weeks’ rent, and I think she is getting uneasy.”

“How much does it amount to?”

“Six dollars.”

“Here is the money, Mr. Snodgrass. I am glad to be of service to an old friend.”

Sylvanus Snodgrass grasped Ben’s hand and the tears came into his eyes, for his heart was gentle, though he dealt in the most blood-curdling romances. In one of his stories there were no less than fifteen murders. “You are a true friend, Ben,” he said. “I shall always remember your kindness.”

“Then let me give you something more to remember. Your suit looks rather shabby. If you will order a new one I will pay for it.”

“You overwhelm me, Ben. I own that I am sometimes ashamed to go along the street dressed in this unseemly garb. Those who learn who I am must be surprised that the well-known novelist, whose name is familiar in all parts of the United States, should go so poorly clad. Now I shall feel more independent and self-respecting.”

If misfortunes seldom come singly, it sometimes happens, also, with strokes of good fortune. The next day Mr. Snodgrass received an order for six dime novels from a publisher of that class of fiction, and it exhilarated him immensely.

“You see, Ben,” he said, “genius will triumph in the end. This is an offer that I never sought. It comes from a new publisher. The editor of the Bugle has thought he owned me, but his tyranny is over.”

“I hope you won’t break with him, Mr. Snodgrass.”

“No, I do not wish to injure him, but hereafter he will not monopolize me.” The next day, as Ben was entering the Fifth Avenue Hotel, he met Grant Griswold, of the Manhattan Athletic Club, under whose care he had originally come to New York.

“How do you do, Mr. Griswold?” said Ben, going up to his old friend and offering his hand.

Mr. Griswold looked puzzled.

“I am afraid I don’t remember you,” he said.

“Don’t you remember the boy who came to New York on the same steamer with you?”

“Why, yes, it is Ben,” said the clubman, looking pleased. “I have often thought of you. And how have you prospered?”

“Famously,” answered Ben with a smile.

“Have you been in New York all the time?”

“I only recently returned from Europe. I spent nearly a year there.”

Mr. Griswold looked surprised.

“You were hardly in a position to make a European trip when I parted with you,” he said.

“No, but I attracted the attention of a lady who had lost her son—a boy of my age—and she took me in his place.”

“I see, and you are with her.”

“No; she is dead.”

“Ah, I am sorry to hear that. It will make a great difference to you.” “Not financially. She has provided well for me.”

“I am glad to hear it, Ben. I took a liking to you when I first met you. Where are you staying?”

“At this hotel for a week, with my friend, General Flint of Iowa.”

“I am delighted to hear such good news of you, Ben. You certainly did well to leave your country home.”

Ben seized the first opportunity after reaching home to write to his mother. He did not go into details as to the fortune that had been left him, but said that he was very comfortably fixed.

Mrs. Winter wrote in reply almost immediately. Her letter was in part as follows:

“Mr. Winter has become more and more difficult to get along with. Some relation of his, Ezra Winter, induced him about a year since, to go into mining stocks as a speculative investment. He has been here several times from Boston, where he has an office, and every time I think he has induced Mr. Winter to invest more heavily. I have no doubt the investment was unwise, and has resulted in considerable losses. I had no confidence in this Ezra; he looks sly and unreliable, but he influenced Mr. Winter by promises of immense profits. For three months Mr. Winter has seemed very much troubled, and a week ago he went to Boston to get some information out of Ezra. He returned crosser and more querulous than ever. He has begun to pinch about household expenses, and insists upon my dispensing with a servant, which compels me to work beyond my strength. I realize more than ever how unwise I was to marry Jacob Winter, but I did so largely on your account. When you see him you will be surprised to find how he has aged. Ezra is at the bottom of it all. Mr. Winter is so fond of money that his losses have weighed upon him heavily.”

After reading this letter Ben decided that he must make an early visit to Wrayburn to see his mother.