One day, in looking over his trunk, Scott's eye fell on the sealed packet, referred to at the opening of this story, which was inscribed:

For my Son.
To be opened a year from my death.

Singularly, the next day would be the anniversary of his father's passing away.

Scott had been so busy that he had given little thought to this packet. Now his interest was excited, and the next day he broke the seal, and read the letter which it contained.

It ran thus:

"My Dear Scott: When you open this packet twelve months will have passed, and I hope you will be in a position to live comfortably on your earnings. I assume that you will be in the employ of Ezra Little, who I understand is well to do, and who will not, I think, turn his back upon a needy relative.

"You will find nothing in this letter that will provide for your future prospects. Indeed, I wish to pass on to you a debt which I am unable to pay.

"During early manhood, I received many favors from a young man named Robert Kent, who afterward emigrated to America. I heard a report two years since that he had been unfortunate, and that his family was suffering. I should like to be able to help him in memory of the past, but my life is nearing the end. Should you ever fall in with Mr. Kent or his family, if you can do anything for them on your father's account, I shall be very glad. It may seem strange that I give you this legacy of duty, considering that I leave you well-nigh penniless, but I have confidence that sooner or later you will succeed, and I hope you may be in a position to help my early friend or his family.

"The only clew I can give you as to my old friend's whereabouts is, that he was an artist by profession, and that he went to New York. Probably, if living, he is in that city, or near it. You may not be in a position to help him, but I should like to have you make his acquaintance, and tell him that I have not forgotten him or his past kindness."

There was something more, but this was the substance of the letter. It was sufficient to interest Scott greatly.

"I wish I could find my father's friend," he reflected. "Though but a year has passed, I am amply able to pay the debt which my poor father owed. It would be pleasant, besides, to see one of his friends."

Naturally, Scott's first reference was to the New York directory. He found numerous Kents, but none that seemed likely to be Robert Kent. There was no artist of that name included in the list.

He thought of advertising, but this would involve a greater degree of publicity than he desired, and might lead to attempted imposture.

A month passed, and Scott was as perplexed as ever. To seek for any particular man in a crowded city like New York was like seeking a needle in a haystack. Besides, he might have left New York and gone to some other city, perhaps to the West.

Yet the man of whom he was in search was, at that very moment, occupying a shabby lodging on Bleecker Street, with his wife and two children. Moreover, his son, a boy a few months younger than Scott, was employed by Ezra Little, in his Eighth Avenue store, at a salary of three dollars a week.

Let us look in upon the Kents in their humble home.

The apartments consisted of three rooms, after the usual fashion of New York tenements. In the one large room, sitting in a big rocking-chair, was a man of middle age, with an expression of pain upon his delicate and refined features. He had been for some time the victim of a rheumatic affection which at times prevented him from working.

At half-past six the door opened, and a slender, dark-haired boy entered the room.

"How do you feel, father?" asked the boy, with a glance of sympathy toward his suffering parent.

"No better, Harold. It is very trying to be tied hand and foot by pain when I ought to be at work."

"If your father would worry less," said Mrs. Kent, a pleasant-looking woman, somewhat younger than her husband, "he would be more likely to get well."

"How can I help worrying, Clara? We are barely able to live when I can work. Now, with only Harold's wages coming in, it is difficult to tell how we shall come out. Did you ask Mr. Little if he would raise you, Harold?"

"Yes, father; but he only shook his head, and told me he could get plenty of boys at the wages he paid me, and perhaps for less."

"Yet he is rich," said Mr. Kent, bitterly. "He and his can live on the fat of the land."

"Has he a son?" asked Mrs. Kent.

"Yes, mother. He has one son—Loammi."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, a little."

"What sort of a boy is he?"

"He is the most disagreeable boy I ever met. When he comes to the store he struts through it as if he were a prince."

"His father was poor enough in the old country."

"He is rich now."

"If I were rich now, I would only be too glad to help those who were less fortunate than myself. I had one friend in England, an artist, like myself, John Walton, who would have done the same. I wish he were in Ezra Little's place."

"Did he have a son named Scott."

"I think it probable. He married a Scott."

"Then he may be in New York. I have heard that there was a boy named Scott Walton in the store a year since."

"That must be his son," said Mr. Kent, eagerly. "Is he in the store now?"

"No. I understand that he and Loammi could not get along together, and he was discharged. But I was told that his father was dead."

"Poor Walton! I am sorry to hear it. It seems to me that it is those who best deserve to live who are summoned first."

"Harold," said his mother, "will you go to the grocery at the corner and get a quarter of a pound of tea and half a pound of butter?"

"Yes, mother, but—shall I pay for them?"

"Ask Mr. Muller to trust us till Saturday night, when you get your week's salary."

Harold took his hat and went downstairs.

The grocery store was kept by a stout, good natured German named Muller. It was a small place, but Herr Muller did a thriving trade.

Harold entered the store and preferred his request.

"And how is your poor father, Harold?" asked the grocer.

"He is in a good deal of pain from rheumatism, Mr. Muller."

"That is too bad. And how is business with him?"

"Very poor," answered Harold, soberly.

"That is bad. How much does he charge now for a portrait?"

"Ten dollars."

"I have been thinking I might get him to paint me. In a month, my wife and I will be twenty-five years married. That is what they call a silver wedding. Gretchen wants to have my portrait to show our friends on that occasion."

"My father will be very glad to paint it, Mr. Muller."

"But he can't work now."

"He will soon be able, I am sure."

"Well, if he can do it in time. We wouldn't like to be disappointed."

"I am sure he will do his best."

Harold carried home the welcome intelligence to his father. It made Mr. Kent somewhat more cheerful.

Ten dollars would help him not a little, though the time had been when he received seventy-five dollars for a portrait no better than he produced now for ten.

"Now, father, you must get well as soon as you can," said Harold.

"Ah, no need to say that."

"I am afraid your father will only worry the more if he finds that he is not soon in a condition to work."

"It seems so little to make a portrait for ten dollars," added Mrs. Kent.

"I should only be too glad if I could get all the work I could do at that price."

The new order somewhat cheered the poor artist. Once, in his early days, he was ambitious, and hoped for a reputation; but long since his ambitions had faded, and he was content and glad to work for a bare livelihood.

Even now, he would not have succeeded but for the small help his son was able to give him. Three dollars a week in many an unfortunate household in the metropolis plays an important part in the finances of a poor family.

But a new trial was in store for the Kent family. The next day, just before the store closed, Loammi visited it.

He wanted to ask a favor of his father, and as he walked through the store he looked about him with the air of a prince of the blood royal. It happened that as he passed along he managed to drop his handkerchief. Instead of picking it up himself, he signaled to Harold Kent to do it.

"Pick up my handkerchief, boy!" he said, in a lofty tone.

"I can't leave my place behind the counter."

"Pick it up, I say!" said Loammi, stamping his foot.

"That is not what I am hired to do," retorted Harold, indignant at the other's tone.

"What is your name?"

"Harold Kent."

"I won't forget it," said Loammi, significantly.

When, on Saturday night, Harold was paid his weekly wages he was told that he need not report for duty on Monday morning.

"Why is this?" asked Harold, in dismay.

"Loammi has complained of you," he was told.

It was too late to appeal to the superintendent, and Harold left the store, grief-stricken and discouraged.