Walking along Eighth Avenue, Scott Walton saw a boy coming out of Ezra Little's store with sad face and eyes red as with weeping. The boy was poorly dressed, and Scott's experience of poverty had been so recent that he felt quick sympathy.

"Are you in trouble? Can I assist you?" he asked, kindly.

Harold turned to see who was addressing him.

"I have just lost my place," he said, briefly.

"Were you working for Mr. Little?"

"Yes."

"How did you lose your place? Tell me, if you don't mind."

"I offended Mr. Little's son, Loammi. He got me discharged."

"I am not surprised to hear it. Loammi got me discharged some months ago."

"You!" exclaimed Harold, in surprise, for he noticed that Scott was handsomely dressed.

"Yes."

"But you are not a poor boy. You do not mind it."

"I was a poor boy then. How much salary did you receive?"

"Three dollars a week."

"I think I can promise you five dollars a week with another firm."

"Can you?" asked Harold, overjoyed. "But how can you? You are only a boy."

Scott smiled.

"I have some influence with the firm of Tower, Douglas & Co. I think they will take you on at my request. But where do you live, and what is your name?"

"I live at 940 Bleecker Street, and my name is Harold Kent."

"You are not related to Robert Kent?" said Scott, in excitement.

"He is my father."

"He is an Englishman, is he not?"

"Yes; do you know him?"

"Not yet, but I mean to. If you are going home, take me with you."

"I shall be glad to do so, but may I ask your name?"

"My name is Scott Walton. Our fathers were friends, and I will be your father's friend."

"I have heard my father speak of your family. He will be delighted to see you—and is your father living?"

"No; father is dead. I judge that you are poor."

"Yes, very poor. My father is an artist, but he has very little to do. Lately he has taken to portrait painting, but he only gets ten dollars for a portrait. Now he is sick with rheumatism and cannot work."

"Cheer up, Harold! Better times are in store for you. I am prosperous, and my father commissioned me to seek you out and help you."

Scott followed Harold up into the poor apartment occupied by his father. As he entered the room, Mr. Kent looked in surprise at his companion. "Is this one of your fellow clerks, Harold?" he asked.

"No, father. I have been discharged from Mr. Little's store, and I have no fellow clerks."

Mr. Kent's countenance fell.

"Then we have no income," he said, sadly. "It only needed this blow. Why were you discharged?"

"It was on account of Loammi Little, but don't be troubled, father. I am to have a better place, at five dollars a week."

"Who will give it to you?"

"I will see that he has such a place, Mr. Kent," said Scott.

"But—why should you feel an interest in my poor boy?"

"Because my name is Scott Walton, and you were a friend of my poor father."

"Not John Walton's son?"

"Yes; I have been looking for you for a month. This evening fortune threw your son in my way. He tells me that you have been unfortunate."

"I am sick and out of work, but you—you look prosperous."

"I am."

"Did your father leave property?"

"No, but I have met with good friends."

"Has Ezra Little treated you better than he has Harold?"

"Ezra Little took me into his store, and after a few week discharged me, as a result of Loammi's meanness and falsehood. I met with other friends, secured another situation, and I am able to help you, Mr. Kent. I want you to find better rooms."

"But I cannot pay the rent of these."

Scott drew out his pocketbook and selected five ten-dollar bills.

"Take this," he said, "and when you have moved I will see what more I can do for you."

"Fifty dollars!" ejaculated the artist, in amazement. "Can you afford this?"

"Easily. I will tell you later how I have prospered."

"Won't you stop and eat supper with us, Mr. Walton?" asked Mrs. Kent.

"Gladly, if you will call me Scott. I want to ask Mr. Kent about his early acquaintance with my poor father."

The evening was spent in social chat, and it was ten o'clock before Scott left his new friends.

"I shall expect to see you on Monday morning at the store, Harold," he said, as he went away.