Though Philip did not know it, it chanced that Squire Pope's only sister, Mrs. Cunningham, lived in Knoxville. She was a widow, fairly well off, with a young daughter, Carrie—a girl of twelve. Squire Pope had long thought of visiting his sister, and happening about this time to have a little business in a town near-by, he decided to carry out his long-deferred plan. He arrived by the afternoon train, in time for supper.

“I am glad you are here to-night, brother,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

“Why particularly to-night, Sister Ellen?” asked the squire.

“Because there is to be an entertainment for the benefit of the Young Men's Literary Club. It is expected to be very interesting.”

“What sort of an entertainment, Ellen?” asked the squire.

“The celebrated elocutionist, Professor Riccabocca, is to give some readings—”

“Riccabocca!” repeated the squire, in a musing tone. “I can't say I ever heard of him.”

“Nor I; but I hear he's very celebrated.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there's a young musician going to play. He is said to be wonderful. He plays on the violin.”

“He's a very handsome boy,” said Carrie enthusiastically. “He's staying at the hotel. I saw him this afternoon when I was passing.”

“So he's good-looking, is he, Carrie?” asked the squire, laughing.

“He's ever so good-looking,” answered Carrie emphatically.

“Then we must certainly go, for Carrie's sake,” said the squire.

Squire Pope had not the slightest idea that the young musician, about whom his niece spoke so enthusiastically, was the boy whom he had so recently persecuted.

If Carrie had mentioned his name, the secret would have been out, but she had not yet heard it.

In honor of her brother's arrival, Mrs. Cunningham prepared a more elaborate supper than usual, and to this it was owing that the three entered the hall late, just as Philip was about to commence playing.

The squire and his companions were obliged to take seats some distance away from the platform, and as his eyesight was poor, he didn't immediately recognize as an old acquaintance the boy who was standing before the audience with his violin in his hand.

“That's he! That's the young violin-player!” whispered Carrie, in a tone of delight. “Isn't he handsome, uncle!”

“Wait till I get my glasses on,” said the squire, fumbling in his pocket for his spectacle-case.

Adjusting his glasses, Squire Pope directed a glance at the stage. He instantly recognized Philip, and his surprise was boundless. He gave a sudden start.

“By gracious, I couldn't have believed it!” he ejaculated.

“Couldn't have believed what, brother?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.

“I know that boy!” he said, in a tone of excitement.

“You know him, uncle?” said Carrie, delighted. “Then you must introduce me to him. I want to meet him ever so much. Where did you ever see him?”

“Where did I see him? I'm his guardian. He ran away from me a little more than a week since, and I never knew where he went.”

“You the guardian of the wonderful boy-player?” said Carrie, astonished. “Isn't it strange?”

“His father died a short time since and left him in my care,” said the squire, not scrupling to make a misstatement. “But I'll tell you more about it when the performance is over.”

When Philip first saw Squire Pope entering the hall it disconcerted him, but he reflected that the squire really had no authority over him, and consequently he had nothing to fear from him.

Should his pretended guardian make any effort to recover him, he was resolved to make a desperate resistance, and even, if necessary, to invoke the help of the law.

Meanwhile, his pride stimulated him to play his best, and the hearty applause of the audience when he had finished his piece encouraged him.

As he was bowing his thanks he could not help directing a triumphant glance at Squire Pope, who was carefully scrutinizing him through his gold-bowed spectacles.

He was glad that the squire had a chance to see for himself that he was well able to make his own way, with the help of the violin of which the Norton official had attempted to deprive him.

In truth, Squire Pope, who knew little of Philip's playing, except that he did play, was amazed to find him so proficient. Instead, however, of concluding that a boy so gifted was abundantly able to “paddle his own canoe,” as the saying is, he was the more resolved to carry him back to Norton, and to take into his own care any the boy might have earned. In the middle of the entertainment was a recess of ten minutes, which most of the audience spent in conversation.

Miss Carrie began again to speak of Philip.

“Oh,—uncle,” she said, “I'm so glad you know that lovely boy-player! He is earning lots of money.”

“Is he!” asked the squire, pricking up his ears. “Who told you so?”

“One of the young men that belongs to the club told me they were to pay him ten dollars for playing to-night.”

“Ten dollars!” ejaculated the squire, in amazement. “I don't believe it! It's ridiculous!”

“Oh, yes, it is true!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “John Turner told Carrie; and he is secretary, and ought to know.”

“That isn't all,” continued Carrie. “Mr. Turner says it is very kind of Mr. Gray—”

“Mr. Gray!” repeated the squire, amused.

“Well, Philip, then. I suppose you call him Philip, as you are his guardian.”

“Well, what were you going to say?”

“Mr. Turner says that it is very kind of Philip to play for so little, for he made a good deal more money by his entertainment in Wilkesville.”

“Did he give a concert in Wilkesville?” asked the squire quickly.

“Yes, he and the professor. He was liked very much there.”

“And you heard that he made a good deal of money there?”

“Yes; lots of it.”

“Then,” thought the squire, “he must have considerable money with him. As his guardian I ought to have the care of it. He's a boy, and isn't fit to have the charge of money. It's very lucky I came here just as I did. It's my duty, as his guardian, to look after him.”

The squire determined to seek an interview with our hero as soon as the entertainment was over.