n my writing. He insisted that I should write a plain,
simple, round hand, which I did. As my fingers became limber, I made
excellent progress, and I was really proud of my penmanship.

These comparatively idle days were full of thought, almost all of which
related to my mother. I had made up my mind that something ought to be
done to find her, and inform her of the altered circumstances of her
husband. I was sure, after reading so often the gentle expression of
her countenance in the picture I had, that she would make us glad as
soon as she was assured of the reformation of the wanderer. I meant to
do something now, even if I had to spend my two thousand dollars in
making a voyage to Europe to search for her. Her father refused to do
anything, and it was necessary for us to act in our own behalf. It was
not the rich man's money, as he averred, that we sought, but only the
calm bliss of domestic happiness, which I knew would come from our
reunited family.

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH PHIL STARTS FOR CHICAGO, AND HEARS A FAMILIAR NAME.

My father was gloomy and sad, and I disliked to say anything more on
the painful topic; but I was so thoroughly in earnest that I could not
postpone some decided action. It seemed criminal to permit such a
matter to rest any longer, and I wondered how I had been able to keep
quiet two years with the consciousness that I had a mother whom I had
seen only with my baby eyes. Something seemed to reproach me for my
coldness and neglect, though in fact I had done all I could to solve
the difficulty. My grandfather appeared to be suspicious, and even
heartless; but I knew that my mother was not so.

Far away she was wandering in foreign lands, and though surrounded by
the gayest of friends, and surfeited in luxury, I could not help
thinking that now and then, in the still watches of the night; her
motherly heart recurred to the little one she had lost. What a joy it
would be to her to know that her son, her lost one, was still alive! If
in her maternal heart she had ever pictured that babe as becoming a
stalwart young man, I felt that I could already realize her hope. If
she had ever anticipated the time when her first-born, as his beard
began to grow, would lavish upon her all the tenderness which a mother
has a right to claim, I felt that I could amply reward her desire, and
realize her ambition.

My father was silent. I knew he was considering what more he could do
to gratify the lon