Harry Raymond, after receiving the congratulations of his school-mates, took his way homeward. He was not obliged to travel by the road, as there was a short cut across the field.

At the end of ten minutes he threw open the door, and went into the house. His mother was ironing, and Katy sat near by, reading a book.

“See what I’ve got, mother,” said Harry, holding up his prize.

“What is it, Harry?”

“It’s the prize for declamation. The boys took a vote, and it was awarded to me by forty-seven votes out of fifty.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Raymond, and her face wore a proud look, as she glanced at the bright and animated face of her son.

“Who were the three boys that didn’t vote for you?” asked Katy.

“I was one of them,” said Harry, smiling.

“Who did you vote for?”

“For Walter Sheffield.”

“Is he a good speaker?”

“Yes.”

“But he isn’t as good as you are.”

“That isn’t for me to say.”

“Who got the other two votes?”

“James Turner.”

“He’s an awful disagreeable boy,” said Katy. “He puts on all sorts of airs just because his father is rich. I wish father was as rich as Squire Turner.”

“Perhaps you’d like to have him for a father.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” said Katy, quickly. “He’s just as bad for a man, as James is for a boy.”

“So, you see, money isn’t everything,” said her mother.

There was a deeper meaning in these words than her children knew. There was one passage in her early life, known only to herself and her husband, with which the rich Squire Turner was connected.

As a girl, Mrs. Raymond had been very handsome, and even now, at the age of thirty-six, she retained much of her good looks. It was not generally known that Squire Turner had been an aspirant for her hand. But though he was even then rich, and could have given her an attractive home—so far as money can make a home attractive—she quietly rejected his suit, and accepted Mr. Raymond, a journeyman carpenter, with less than a hundred dollars.

This rejection Squire Turner never forgot nor forgave. He was not a forgiving man, and his resentment was bitter, though he did not choose to show it publicly. Indeed, he treated Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, to all appearance, as though nothing had happened; but none the less he nursed his anger, and waited patiently for an opportunity to repay, by some grievous injury, the wrong which he fancied he had suffered. About the same time with Mr. Raymond, Squire Turner also married a Miss Ellis, a sharp-tempered spinster from a neighboring town, whose only redeeming point was the possession of ten thousand dollars in her own right. Her husband cared nothing for her, but only for her money, and the marriage was far from being a happy one. Domestic dissension, and almost continual wrangling, were what James had witnessed from his babyhood up to the time of his mother’s death, a year previous; and perhaps it is not surprising that the son of such parents should have been unpopular, and possessed of disagreeable traits.

Yet Mr. Raymond had applied to Squire Turner for money to assist him in building his house. The squire had two objects in granting this request. First, the security was ample, and the investment a good one; and, secondly, a debtor is always to some extent in the power of his creditor. Squire Turner was by no means averse to establishing this power over the husband of the woman who had rejected his suit. The time might come when he could make a use of it.

“What piece did you speak to-day, Harry?” asked his mother.

“The supposed speech of John Adams. You remember how it begins: ‘Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote.’”

“Yes, I remember it.”

“I have been thinking, mother,” continued Harry “that I shall take my motto from it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this: Sink or swim, I am going to do my duty, and try to succeed in life. I am not going to be frightened by obstacles, but am going to push on as well as I can.”

“It’s a good motto, Harry. I hope you’ll have strength to adhere to it.”

“I think I’ll go out and split a little wood, now, mother.”

“I wish you would. I always burn a good deal on ironing days.”

“I think I’ll split up enough to last two or three days. I have more time Wednesdays than Mondays.”

On Wednesday the only afternoon exercise was declamation, so that, instead of closing at four, the school was usually out, as to-day, at half-past two. At half-past five Harry re-entered the house.

“Isn’t supper ready, mother?” he asked. “I’m as hungry as a bear.”

“Yes, Harry, it is ready; but your father has not got home yet. I have been waiting for him.”

“Where is he at work?”

“On Doctor Lamson’s house, just across the railroad. The doctor is in a hurry to get it finished as soon as possible, and perhaps the carpenters are working extra hours.”

“Did father say anything about it before he went away this morning?”

“No, he didn’t mention any intention of stopping. But he stopped on Monday a little over time, and perhaps he has done so to-night.”

“Well, I hope he’ll return soon, for I feel uncommonly hungry.”

“If your father isn’t here by six, we’ll sit down. I can keep the tea hot for him.”

Not a shadow of apprehension was in Mrs. Raymond’s mind as she spoke, but already a heavy calamity had fallen upon her, of which she was unconscious.

Six o’clock came, and Mr. Raymond had not returned.

“I think you had better sit down to tea, children,” said their mother. “I am not very hungry, and I will wait for your father.”

They sat down accordingly, and Harry made a hearty supper, quite justifying the report he had given of his appetite.

Another hour passed away.

It was now seven o’clock, and Mr. Raymond was still absent.

“I wonder your father does not come,” said Mrs. Raymond, with a little vague restlessness, which had not yet been converted into anxiety. “He has not often been so late as this, without telling me beforehand that he meant to stay away.”

“I think I will go out and meet him,” said Harry.

To this Mrs. Raymond made no objection, feeling, on the whole, rather relieved by the proposal of her son.

She set the tea once more on the stove, and the bread and pie were also placed on the hearth of the stove to keep warm.

“Your father must be hungry,” she said to Katy, “as it is so late.”

Harry went out of the gate, and walked slowly up the road in the direction of his father’s probable return. He strained his eyes to see through the gathering twilight, but could see nothing of his father. Rather surprised at this, he kept on, until he happened to meet in the street Hiram Payson, who he knew had also been employed on Doctor Lamson’s house.

“Good-evening, Mr. Payson,” he said.

“Good-evening, Harry; where are you going? To the store?”

“No; I thought I would come out and see if I could meet my father.”

“Meet your father? Why, where has he gone?”

“He hasn’t got home from work yet. Did you start before him?”

“No; he started before me.”

“He did!” exclaimed Harry, in surprise. “What time was that?”

“About five o’clock. I know it was not later than that.”

“Where can he be?”

“Haven’t you seen anything of him?”

“No. Did he say anything about going anywhere before he returned home?”

“No.”

“Where can he be?” asked Harry, again; and this time there was anxiety in his tone.

“I’ll tell you what, Harry,” said Hiram Payson, “if you are going to look for him, I’ll join you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Payson. I wish you would.”

The two pushed on in the direction of Doctor Lamson’s new house. It was probably about a mile distant in all, the railroad being three-quarters of the way. They reached the railroad, and, as if by mutual consent, paused and looked about them.

“Your father sometimes walks on the railroad a little distance, as far as Carter’s pasture. Perhaps we had better take that way.”

Harry assented. There was a scared look on his face, and a fear which he did not dare to define to himself.

It was realized all too soon. About fifty rods distant, they came upon the mangled remains of his father, lying stretched across the track. His hearing had been affected by a fever, which, he had three years previous. It was evident, that as he was walking on the track, the train sweeping round a curve had come upon him unawares, and his life was the forfeit. Harry uttered one shriek of horror, and sank down beside his father’s body, now cold in death.