The morning papers contained an account of John Hartley's arrest, and the crime with which he was charged.

Harriet Vernon read it at the breakfast-table with an interest which may be imagined.

"I don't like to rejoice in any man's misfortune," she said to herself, "but now I can have a few years of peace. My precious brother-in-law will doubtless pass the next few years in enforced seclusion, and I can have a settled home."

Directly after breakfast, she set out for the humble home of her niece. She found all at home, for Dan was not to go back to business till Monday.

"Well, my good friend," she said, "I have news for you."

"Good news, I hope," said Dan.

"Yes, good news. Henceforth I can have Althea with me. The obstacle that separated us is removed."

Mrs. Mordaunt's countenance fell, and Dan looked sober. It was plain that Althea was to be taken from them, and they had learned to love her.

"I am very glad," faltered Mrs. Mordaunt.

"You don't look glad," returned Mrs. Vernon.

"You see we don't like to part with Althea," explained Dan, who understood his mother's feelings.

"Who said you were to part with the child?" asked Mrs. Vernon, bluntly.

"I thought you meant to take her from us."

"Oh, I see. Your mistake is a natural one, for I have not told you my plans. I mean to take a house up town, install Mrs. Mordaunt as my housekeeper and friend, and adopt this young man (indicating Dan), provided he has no objection."

"How kind you are, Mrs. Vernon," ejaculated Mrs. Mordaunt.

"No, I am selfish. I have plenty of money, and no one to care for, or to care for me. I have taken a fancy to you all, and I am quite sure that we can all live happily together. Althea is my niece, and you, Dan, may call me aunt, too, if you like. Is it a bargain?"

Dan offered her his hand in a frank, cordial way, which she liked.

"So it is settled, then," she said, in a pleased voice. "I ought to warn you," she added, "that I have the reputation of being ill-tempered. You may get tired of living with me."

"We'll take the risk," said Dan, smiling.

Mrs. Vernon, whose habit it was to act promptly, engaged a house on Madison avenue, furnished it without regard to expense, and in less than a fortnight, installed her friends in it. Then she had a talk with Dan about his plans.

"Do you wish to remain in your place," she asked, "or would you like to obtain a better education first?"

"To obtain an education," said Dan, promptly.

"Then give notice to your employer of your intention."

Dan did so.

Mrs. Vernon in a second interview informed him that besides defraying his school expenses, she should give him an allowance of fifty dollars a month for his own personal needs.

"May I give a part of it to my mother?" asked Dan.

"No."

His countenance fell, but Mrs. Vernon smiled.

"You don't ask why I refuse," she said.

"I suppose you have a good reason," said Dan, dubiously.

"My reason is that I shall pay your mother double this sum. Unless she is very extravagant it ought to be enough to defray her expenses."

"How liberal you are, Mrs. Vernon!" exclaimed Dan, in fresh astonishment.

"Mrs. Vernon!"

"Aunt Harriet, I mean."

"That is better."

All these important changes in the position of the Mordaunts were unknown to their old friends, who, since their loss of property, had given them the cold shoulder.

One day Tom Carver, in passing the house, saw Dan coming down the steps quite as handsomely dressed as himself. His surprise and curiosity were aroused.

"Are you running errands?" he asked.

"No. What makes you think so?" returned Dan, smiling.

"I didn't know what else could carry you to such a house."

"Oh, that's easily explained," said Dan. "I live here."

"You live there!" ejaculated Tom.

"Yes."

"Oh, I see. You are in the employ of the family."

"Not exactly," said Dan. "I have nothing to do."

"Does your mother live there?"

"Yes."

"You don't mean to say she boards there?"

"We are living with my aunt."

"Is your aunt rich?" asked Tom, in a more deferential tone.

"I believe she is. At any rate she gives me a handsome allowance."

"You don't say so! How much does she give you?"

"Fifty dollars a month."

"And you don't have anything to do?"

"Only to study. I am going back to school."

"What a lucky fellow!" exclaimed Tom, enviously. "Why, my father only allows me three dollars a week."

"I could get along on that. I don't need as much as my aunt allows me."

"I say, Dan," said Tom, in the most friendly terms, "I'm awfully hard up. Could you lend me five dollars?"

"Yes," said Dan, secretly amused with the change in Tom's manner.

"You always were a good fellow!" said Tom, linking his arm in Dan's. "I'm very glad you're rich again. You must come to see me often."

"Thank you," said Dan, smiling, "but I'm afraid you have forgotten something."

"What do you mean?"

"You know I used to be a newsboy in front of the Astor House."

"That don't matter."

"And you might not care to associate with a newsboy."

"Well, you are all right now," said Tom, magnanimously.

"You didn't always think so, Tom."

"I always thought you were a gentleman, Dan. I am coming to see you soon. You must introduce me to your aunt."

"I suppose it's the way of the world," thought Dan. "It is lucky that there are some true friends who stick by us through thick and thin."

Mrs. Mordaunt had an experience similar to Dan's. Her old acquaintances, who, during her poverty never seemed to recognize her when they met, gradually awoke to the consciousness of her continued existence, and left cards. She received them politely, but rated their professions of friendship at their true value. They had not been "friends in need," and she could not count them "friends indeed."