Pine Point was situated on the Kennebec River, and from its height overlooked it, so that a person standing on its crest could scan the river for a considerable distance up and down. There was a small grove of pine-trees at a little distance, and this had given the point its name. A hundred feet from the brink stood the old-fashioned cottage occupied by Mrs. Morris. It had belonged, in a former generation, to an uncle of hers, who, dying unmarried, had bequeathed it to her. Perhaps half an acre was attached to it. There had been more, but it had been sold off.

When Grit and his mother came to Chester to live—it was in this township that Pine Point was situated—she had but little of her two thousand dollars' remaining, and when her husband was called to expiate his offense against the law in prison, there were but ten dollars in the house. Mrs. Morris was fortunate enough to secure a boarder, whose board-money paid nearly all their small household expenses for three years, the remainder being earned by her own skill as a dressmaker; but when the boarder went to California, never to return, Grit was already thirteen years old, and hit upon a way of earning money.

On the opposite bank of the Kennebec was the village of Portville, but there was no bridge at that point. So Grit bought a boat for a few dollars, agreeing to pay for it in instalments, and established a private ferry between the two places. His ordinary charge for rowing a passenger across—the distance being half a mile—was ten cents; but if it were a child, or a poor person, he was willing to receive five, and he took parties of four at a reduction.

It was an idea of his own, but it paid. Grit himself was rather surprised at the number of persons who availed themselves of his ferry. Sometimes he found at the end of the day that he had received in fares over a dollar, and one Fourth of July, when there was a special celebration in Portville, he actually made three dollars. Of course, he had to work pretty hard for it, but the young boatman's arms were strong, as was shown by his sturdy stroke.

Grit was now fifteen, and he could reflect with pride that for two years he had been able to support his mother in a comfortable manner, so that she had wanted for nothing—that is, for nothing that could be classed as a comfort. Luxuries he had not been able to supply, but for them neither he nor his mother cared. They were content with their plain way of living.

But if his stepfather were coming home, Grit felt that his income would no longer be adequate to maintain the household. Mr. Brandon ought to increase the family income, but, knowing what he and his mother did of his ways, he built no hope upon that. It looked as if their quiet home happiness was likely to be rudely broken in upon by the threatened invasion.

"Well, mother," said Grit, "I must get to work."

"You haven't finished your dinner, my son."

"Your news has spoiled my appetite, mother. However, I dare say I'll make up for it at supper."

"I'll save a piece of meat for you to eat then. You work so hard that you need meat to keep up your strength."

"I haven't had to work much this morning, mother, worse luck! I only earned twenty cents. People don't seem inclined to travel to-day."

"Never mind, Grit. I've got five dollars in the house."

"Save it for a rainy day, mother. The day is only half over, and I may have good luck this afternoon."

As Grit left the house with his quick, firm step, Mrs. Morris looked after him with blended affection and pride.

"What a good boy he is!" she said to herself. "He is a boy that any mother might be proud of."

And so he was. Our young hero was not only a strong, manly boy, but there was something very attractive in his clear eyes and frank smile, browned though his skin was by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He was a general favorite in the town, or, rather, in the two towns, for he was as well known in Portville as he was in Chester.

I have said he was a general favorite, but there was one at least who disliked him. This was Phil Courtney, a boy about his own age, the son of an ex-president of the Chester bank, a boy who considered himself of great consequence, and socially far above the young boatman. He lived in a handsome house, and had a good supply of pocket-money, though he was always grumbling about his small allowance. It by no means follows that money makes a boy a snob, but if he has any tendency that way, it is likely to show itself under such circumstances.

Now, it happened that Phil had a cousin staying at his house as a visitor, quite a pretty girl, in whose eyes he liked to appear to advantage. As Grit reached the shore, where he had tied his boat, they were seen approaching the same point.

"I wonder if Phil is going to favor me with his patronage," thought Grit, as his eyes fell upon them.

"Here, you boatman!" called out Phil, in a tone of authority. "We want to go over to Portville."

Grit's eyes danced with merriment, as he answered gravely:

"I have no objection to your going."

The girl laughed merrily, but Phil frowned, for his dignity was wounded by Grit's flippancy.

"I am not in the habit of considering whether you have any objection or not," he said haughtily.

"Don't be a goose, Phil!" said his cousin. "The boy is in fun."

"I would rather he would not make fun of me," said Phil.

"I won't, then," said Grit, smiling.

"Ahem! you may convey us across," said Phil.

"If you please," added the young lady, with a smile.

"She is very good-looking, and five times as polite as Phil," thought Grit, fixing his eyes admiringly upon the pretty face of Marion Clarke, as he afterward learned her name to be.

"I shall be glad to have you as a passenger," said our hero, but he looked at Marion, not at Phil.

"Thank you."

"If you've got through with your compliments," said Phil impatiently, "we'd better start."

"I am ready," said Grit. "May I help you in?" he asked of Marion.

"Yes, thank you."

"It is quite unnecessary. I can assist you," said Phil, advancing.

But he was too late, for Marion had already availed herself of the young boatman's proffered aid.

"Thank you," said Marion again, pleasantly, as she took her seat in the stern.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" demanded Phil crossly, as he took his seat beside her.

"I didn't want to be always troubling you, cousin Phil," said Marion, with a coquettish glance at Grit, which her cousin did not at all relish.

"Don't notice him so much," he said, in a low voice. "He's only a poor boatman."

"He is very good-looking, I think," said Marion.

Grit's back was turned, but he heard both question and answer, and his cheeks glowed with pleasure at the young lady's speech, though it was answered by a contemptuous sniff from Phil.

"I don't admire your taste, Marion," he said.

"Hush, he'll hear you," she whispered. "What's his name?"

By way of answering, Phil addressed Grit in a condescending tone.

"Well, Grit, how is business to-day?"

"Rather quiet, thank you."

"You see, he earns his living by boating, explained Phil, with the manner of one who was speaking of a very inferior person.

"How much have you earned now?" he asked further.

"Only twenty cents," answered Grit; "but I suppose," he added, smiling, "I suppose you intend to pay me liberally."

"I mean to pay you your regular fare," said Phil, who was not of a liberal disposition.

"Thank you; I ask no more."

"Do you row across often?" asked Marion.

"Sometimes I make eight or ten trips in a day. On the Fourth of July I went fifteen times."

"How strong you must be!"

"Pooh! I could do more than that," said Phil loftily, unwilling that Grit should be admired for anything.

"Oh, I know you're remarkable," said his cousin dryly.

Just then the wind, which was unusually strong, took Phil's hat, and it blew off to a considerable distance.

"My hat's off!" exclaimed Phil, in excitement. "Row after it, quick. It's a new Panama, and cost ten dollars."