Three days later, two things puzzled the good people of Pocasset. One was the removal of old Anthony from his lonely cabin to the small but comfortable cottage of Mrs. Manning. It was voted by the village people a very sensible move, but they were at a loss to understand how the recluse had been persuaded to change his mode of life. It was generally supposed that he was quite poor, but the two or three dollars a week he would be able to pay the widow would be a help. A room on the second floor was appropriated to old Anthony, where he spent much of his time. Every day, however, he wandered off to the woods, which had been his residence for several years. Though he said little, he was soon convinced that he had bettered himself by his removal. Mrs. Manning provided plain, well-cooked meals, which were far more attractive than the extemporized lunches with which he had thus far been content.

There was another circumstance, however, that equally puzzled the good people of the village. This was the disappearance of Mark. He was no longer seen walking about the streets, and many were the inquiries made of his mother as to where he had gone. At the request of old Anthony she answered very indefinitely. She could not tell just where Mark was, but he was employed. He would probably be home in a few weeks.

Among those whose curiosity was most keen were James Collins and Tom Wyman.

"Where do you think Mark has gone?" said James one day, throwing away a half-smoked cigarette.

"I don't know any more than the man in the moon," answered Tom. "I asked his mother the other day when I met her in the street, but I couldn't get any satisfaction out of her."

"Perhaps he has gone to the city in search of a place."

"I shouldn't wonder."

"He can't get anything to do here. Father won't take him back into the shop."

"He was at work for old Anthony."

"That couldn't amount to much. The hermit is as poor as Job's turkey."

"Do you know this? How about the gold we saw?"

"It was all he had," said James, who was in the habit of jumping at conclusions. "My father says he gets a small pension from some person in the city. Some rich relative, I suppose, is taking care of him. Do you know, Tom, I should be glad to come across Mark blacking boots, or selling papers in the city?"

"Why?"

"He is so mighty independent—poor and proud—that I believe he actually thinks himself as good as you or I."

"He is pretty pert, that's a fact."

"If he were only humble, and showed that he knew his place, I'd get father to take him back into the shop. It's his own fault that he got discharged."

"It's a good thing for his mother having a boarder, as Mark isn't able to help her."

"Pooh! what does that amount to? He probably pays two or three dollars a week. However, I suppose that's a good deal to her."

Mark would have been amused, but not surprised, if he could have heard this conversation between his two old companions. At present, however, he had other things to occupy his attention.

He had already reached Chicago and was staying there a day or two before going farther.

His ultimate destination was Claremont, in Indiana, the place where the daughter of the hermit was understood to have died. It was about seventy-five miles from Chicago, and could be reached in three hours. Mark felt that he could do no better in his brief stay in Chicago than walk about, and make himself familiar with the principal streets and avenues, and gain some knowledge of the western metropolis.

He kept his eyes wide open, and noticed all that came in his way. Everywhere throngs of busy wayfarers, and not one of whom he had ever seen before. It seemed strange to him, for in Pocasset he knew everybody.

"The world is larger than I thought," he reflected, "and there are more people in it. I wish I could see one familiar face."

He had hardly formulated the wish when his glance rested on a form that seemed strangely familiar. It was a man, tall, slender, with a slouching gait.

"That must be Lyman Taylor," he decided, with a natural start of astonishment.

It was indeed the man whom he had last seen in the woods at Pocasset. He had not thought to meet him, though he remembered now to have heard that Lyman had been sent to the West by his uncle.

On the whole, Mark was not as much pleased as he expected to see this familiar face. He did not care to be recognized, as Lyman might have his curiosity excited, and make him trouble.

Suddenly Lyman turned, and his glance fell upon Mark. The boy lowered his head, and walked on without notice. Lyman did not recognize him, though he was vaguely conscious of something familiar in Mark's appearance. But before he left New York, Mark had been provided with a new check traveling suit, and a hat of a different style from the one he was accustomed to wear.

Moreover, Lyman had no thought of meeting the country boy in a western city. So he turned his glance in a different direction, and descended the steps that led to a basement pool and billiard room.

"I would follow him down there, if I dared risk discovery," thought Mark. "However, it is none of my business what he does, as long as he doesn't annoy his uncle."

Lyman Taylor would have been glad to see Mark, or any one else representing his uncle. The sum he had brought away with him had nearly all melted away, and his prospects were by no means brilliant. The thought of engaging in any employment by which he might earn an honest and independent livelihood was by no means attractive to him.

In the afternoon of the second day Mark started by train for Claremont, and arrived at the Claremont Hotel in time for supper.

He found Claremont to be a fair sized town, containing perhaps four thousand inhabitants. It seemed to be growing rapidly, like most western towns favorably situated. After a comfortable supper he bethought himself of whom he could make inquiries as to the object of his journey.

As he sat in the office, a tall man, with long hair, and a look of speculation in his eyes accosted him.

"Have you just arrived in town, young man?"

"Yes, sir," answered Mark.

"Are you calculatin' to settle here?"

"No, sir; I am only here on a little business."

"Drummer, I reckon!"

"No, sir; I do not represent any business house."

"You do look rather young for a drummer, but you said you were travelin' on business."

"My business is of a different nature, sir."

"Just so! if I can help you, I will. I am Colonel Enoch Tarbox, well-known hereabouts."

"Thank you for your offer. If you will allow me, I will ask you one or two questions."

"Go ahead, young man; I'm ready to give you any information in my power."

"I am in search of a family named Ransom, who lived here some years ago."

"John Ransom?"

"Yes, sir."

"You won't find him; he's dead."

"So I have heard. Did you know him or his wife?"

"I've drank with John Ransom many a time at this very bar. He was rather fond of a social glass."

"Did you know his wife?"

"I've seen her often. She's dead too. They both died of a fever."

"I suppose they had no children," said Mark, putting the question anxiously.

"Let me see," said the colonel slowly, evidently searching his memory; "yes, I believe there was a child, a little boy."

"Is he alive?" asked Mark eagerly.

"There you've got me, stranger. Children ain't much in my line. I never heerd of Ransom's child dying. I reckon it left town though."

"Where could I get any information about it, do you think?"

Colonel Tarbox reflected.

"I reckon you'd better go to Mrs. Finn; she was intimate with Mrs. Ransom. She lives in the little white cottage alongside of the Presbyterian church."

"Thank you, Colonel Tarbox; I am much indebted to you for what you have told me."

"Don't mention it. Won't you take a drink?"

This kind offer Mark declined rather to the colonel's dissatisfaction. He decided to call upon Mrs. Finn the next day.