n and his wife insisted upon sharing a part
of the expense; and the youth could not refuse them, though he would not
permit it to be more than a trifle as compared with his own. The placing
of the shaft has led me to anticipate events somewhat.

Tom Gordon was approaching young manhood. He was a tall, sturdy boy, with
a fair education, and it was high time that he set to work at the serious
business of life. Providence had ordered that he should pass through more
than one stirring experience. He had knocked about the world a good deal
more than falls to the lot of most lads of his age, and had acquired
valuable knowledge. He had learned much of the ways of men, and had
undergone a schooling, rough of itself, but fitted to qualify him for the
rebuffs of fortune to which we must all become accustomed.

What should he do? This was the question which he often debated with
himself, as was befitting in a sensible youth, who feared the danger of a
mistake when standing at the "crossing of the ways."

Somehow he felt a strong dislike to going back to New York. He and Jim had
met with such rough treatment there that the memory was not pleasant. His
yearning was to stay in the neighborhood of Bellemore. The soothing flow
of the beautiful Hudson, the picturesque, restful scenery, and, above all,
the sweet, sad halo that lingered around the last abiding place of his
friend, held him to the spot, which would ever be a sacred one to him.

He could not fancy the life of a farmer, though nothing would have pleased
Mr. Pitcairn more than to have the strong, thoughtful boy prepare himself
to become his successor in the management of the thrifty and well-kept
place. While Tom was in this state of incertitude, Providence opened the
way, as it always does to the one who is waiting to accept the indication.

It was at the close of a mild day in early summer that he was sitting on
the front porch of his new home, talking with Mr. Pitcairn and his wife,
when a carriage stopped in front, and an elderly gentleman stepped down,
tied his horse, and opened the gate.

"Why, that's Mr. Warmore," said Farmer Pitcairn to his wife, as he rose to
greet his visitor, who walked briskly up the graveled path.

The appearance of the gentleman was prepossessing. He was tall and spare,
but with a benign expression of countenance. He was well dressed, wore
gold spectacles, and his scant hair and a tuft of whiskers on either side
of his cheeks were snowy whi