aw that the repayal of this sum would cost him
much self-denial and privation. It would be necessary to cut their
modest expenses down severely. For himself Ernest did not mind, but it
hurt him keenly that his mother should lack the little luxuries and
comforts to which she had been accustomed. He saw too, in spite of her
efforts to hide it, that leaving her old home was a terrible blow to
her. Altogether, Ernest felt bitter and disheartened; his step lacked
spring and his face its smile. He did his work with dogged
faithfulness, but he no longer found pleasure in it. He knew that his
mother secretly pined after her lost home where she had gone as a
bride, and the knowledge rendered him very unhappy.

* * * * *

Paul Sinclair, his father's friend and cousin, died that winter,
leaving two small children. His wife had died the previous year. When
his business affairs came to be settled they were found to be sadly
involved. There were debts on all sides, and it was soon only too
evident that nothing was left for the little boys. They were homeless
and penniless.

"What will become of them, poor little fellows?" said Mrs. Duncan
pityingly. "We are their only relatives, Ernest. We must give them a
home at least."

"Mother, how can we!" exclaimed Ernest. "We are so poor. It's as much
as we can do to get along now, and there is that two hundred to pay
Mr. White. I'm sorry for Danny and Frank, but I don't see how we can
possibly do anything for them."

Mrs. Duncan sighed.

"I know it isn't right to ask you to add to your burden," she said
wistfully.

"It is of _you_ I am thinking, Mother," said Ernest tenderly. "I can't
have your burden added to. You deny yourself too much and work too
hard now. What would it be if you took the care of those children upon
yourself?"

"Don't think of me, Ernest," said Mrs. Duncan eagerly. "I wouldn't
mind. I'd be glad to do anything I could for them, poor little souls.
Their father was your father's best friend, and I feel as if it were
our duty to do all we can for them. They're such little fellows. Who
knows how they would be treated if they were taken by strangers? And
they'd most likely be separated, and that would be a shame. But I
leave it for you to decide, Ernest. It is your right, for the heaviest
part will fall on you."

Ernest did not decide at once. For a week he thought the matter over,
weighing pros and cons carefully. To take the two Sin