Andy and his mother moved into Dr. Townley's cottage. It was rather an improvement upon the house in which they had lived hitherto, but, then, there was this great difference: For the one they had no rent to pay, but for the other they paid fifty dollars rent. Dr. Townley would gladly have charged nothing, but he was a comparatively poor man, and could not afford to be as generous as his heart would have dictated. He had a fair income, being skillful and in good practice, but he had a son in college, and his expenses were a considerable drain upon his father's purse. Still, with the money saved, and Andy's weekly earnings, the Burkes were able to live very comfortably and still pay the rent. But a real misfortune was in store for Andy.

Miss Sophia Grant was taken sick with lung fever. The sickness lasted for some weeks, and left her considerably debilitated.

"What do you think of Sophia, Dr. Townley?" asked Priscilla, anxiously. "She remains weak, and she has a bad cough. I am feeling alarmed about her."

"I'll tell you what I think, Miss Priscilla," said the doctor, "though I am sorry to do it. The fact is, the air here is altogether too bracing for your sister. She will have to go to some inland town, where the east winds are not felt."

"Then I must go, too," said Miss Priscilla. "We have lived together from girlhood, and we cannot be separated."

"I supposed you would be unwilling to leave her, so I am afraid we must make up our minds to lose you both."

"Do you think, doctor, that Sophia will, by and by, be strong enough to return here?"

"I am afraid not. The effects of lung fever are always felt for a long time. She will improve, no doubt, but a return to this harsh air would, I fear, bring back her old trouble."

"I asked because I wanted to know whether it would be best to keep this place. After what you have told me, I shall try to sell it."

"I am truly sorry, Miss Priscilla."

"So am I, Dr. Townley. I don't expect any place will seem so much like home as this."

"Have you any particular place that you think of going to?"

"Yes; I have a niece married in a small town near Syracuse, New York State. They don't have east winds there. I'll get Priscilla (she's named after me) to hunt up a cottage that we can live in, and move right out there. I suppose we'd better go soon?"

"Better go at once. Weak lungs must be humored."

"Then I'll write to Priscilla to get me a boarding house, and we'll start next week."

There was one person whom this removal was likely to affect seriously, and this was our young hero.

"I hope Andy'll be able to get a place," said Priscilla, after she had communicated the doctor's orders to her sister.

"Just so, Priscilla. He's a good boy."

"I will give him a good recommendation."

"Just so. Does he know it?"

"No. I will call him in and tell him, so that he can be looking out for another position."

"Just so."

Andy answered the call of Miss Priscilla. He had been sawing wood, and there was sawdust in his sleeves.

"How long have you been with us, Andy?" asked his mistress.

"Over a year, ma'am."

"I wish I could keep you for a year to come."

"Can't you?" asked Andy, startled.

"No, Andy."

"What's the matter, Miss Priscilla? Have I done anything wrong?"

"No, Andy. We are both of us quite satisfied with you."

"You haven't lost any money, ma'am, have you? I'll work for less, if you can't afford to pay as much as you've been paying."

"Thank you, Andy, but it isn't that. My sister's lungs are weak, and Dr. Townley has ordered her to move to a less exposed place. We are going to move away from the town."

"I'm sorry," said Andy, and he was, for other reasons than because he was about to lose a good place.

"We shall miss you, Andy."

"Just so," chimed in Miss Sophia, with a cough.

"You see how weak my sister's lungs are. It's on her account we are going."

"Shan't you come back again, ma'am?"

"No, Andy. The doctor says it will never be safe for us to do so. I hope you will get a good place."

"I hope so, ma'am; but you needn't think of that."

"We are prepared to give you a good recommendation. We feel perfectly satisfied with you in every way."

"Just so," said Sophia.

"Thank you, ma'am, and you, too, Miss Sophia. I've tried to do my duty faithfully by you."

"And you have, Andy."

"How soon do you go, ma'am?"

"Next week, if we can get away. The doctor says we can't get away too soon. So you had better be looking around, to see if you can get a place somewhere."

"I will, ma'am; but I'll stay with you till the last day. You'll need me to pack up for you."

"Yes, we shall. To-morrow I'll write you the recommendation."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Andy did not sleep as much as usual that night. His wages were the main support of his mother and sister, and he could think of no other place in the village where he was likely to be employed. He had a little money saved up, but he didn't like the idea of spending it. Besides, it would not last long.

"I wish Dr. Townley wanted a boy," thought Andy. "I'd rather work for the doctor than for anybody else in the village. He's a nice man, and he cares just as much for poor folks as he does for rich folks. I am sure he likes me better than he does Godfrey Preston."

But Dr. Townley already had a boy, whom he did not like to turn off. Nor could he have afforded to pay Andy as high wages as he had received from the Misses Grant. There really seemed to be no vacant place in the village for our young hero to fill, and, of course, this troubled him.

Next week the Misses Grant got away from the village. They gave Andy as a present an old-fashioned silver watch, about the size and shape of a turnip. Andy was glad to get it, old-fashioned as it was, and he thanked them warmly.

The day afterward he was walking slowly along the village street, when he came upon Godfrey Preston strutting along, with an air of importance. He and his mother had removed to Boston, but they were visiting the town on a little business.

"Hello, there!" said Godfrey, halting.

"Hello!" said Andy.

"You've lost your place, haven't you?" asked Godfrey, with a sneer.

"Yes."

"How are you going to live?"

"By eating, I expect," answered Andy, shortly.

"If you can get anything to eat, you mean?"

"We got enough so far."

"Perhaps you won't have, long. You may have to go to the poorhouse."

"When I do, I shall find you there."

"What do you mean?" demanded Godfrey, angrily.

"I mean I shan't go there till you do."

"You're proud for a beggar."

"I'm more of a gentleman than you are."

"I'd thrash you, only I won't demean myself by doing it."

"That's lucky, or you might get thrashed yourself."

"You're only an Irish boy."

"I'm proud of that same. You won't find me go back on my country."

Godfrey walked away. Somehow, he could never get the better of Andy.

"I hope I'll see you begging in rags, some day," he thought to himself.

But boys like Andy are not often reduced to such a point.