rolled by, and Thanksgiving approached.

Harry was toiling at his case one day, when Oscar Vincent entered the
office.

"Hard at work, I see, Harry," he said.

"Yes," said Harry; "I can't afford to be idle."

"I want you to be idle for three days," said Oscar.

Harry looked up in surprise.

"How is that?" he asked.

"You know we have a vacation from Wednesday to Monday at the Academy."

"Over Thanksgiving?"

"Yes."

"Well, I am going home to spend that time, and I want you to go with
me."

"What, to Boston?" asked Harry, startled, for to him, inexperienced
as he was, that seemed a very long journey.

"Yes. Father and mother gave me permission to invite you. Shall I
show you the letter?"

"I'll take it for granted, Oscar, but I am afraid I can't go."

"Nonsense! What's to prevent?"

"In the first place, Mr. Anderson can't spare me."

"Ask him."

"What's that?" asked the editor, hearing his name mentioned.

"I have invited Harry to spend the Thanksgiving vacation with me in
Boston, and he is afraid you can't spare him?"

"Does your father sanction your invitation?"

"Yes, he wrote me this morning--that is, I got the letter this
morning--telling me to ask Harry to come."

Now the country editor had a great respect for the city editor, who
was indeed known by reputation throughout New England as a man of
influence and ability, and he felt disposed to accede to any request
of his.

So he said pleasantly, "Of course, Harry, we shall miss you, but if
Mr. Ferguson is disposed to do a little additional work, we will get
along till Monday. What do you say, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I shall be very glad to oblige Harry," said the older workman, "and
I hope he will have a good time."

"That settles the question, Harry," said Oscar, joyfully. "So all
you've got to do is to pack up and be ready to start to-morrow
morning. It's Tuesday, you know, already."

Harry hesitated, and Oscar observed it.

"Well, what's the matter now?" he said; "out with it."

"I'll tell you, Oscar," said Harry, coloring a little. "Your father
is a rich man, and lives handsomely. I haven't any clothes good
enough to wear on a visit to your house."

"Oh, hang your clothes!" said Oscar, impetuously. "It isn't your
clothes we invite. It's yourself."

"Still, Oscar--"

"Come, I see you think I am like Fitz Fletcher, after all. Say you
think me a snob, and done with it."

"But I don't," said Harry, smiling.

"Then don