going to lose our home," said the widow, the
look of trouble returning to her face.

"What do you mean, mother?"

"You know that Squire Davenport has a mortgage on the place for seven
hundred dollars; he was here to-night with a man named Kirk, some
connection of his wife. It seems Kirk is coming to Pentonville to
live, and wants this house."

"He will have to want it, mother," said Ben stoutly.

"Not if the squire backs him as he does; he threatens to foreclose the
mortgage if I don't sell."

Ben comprehended the situation now, and appreciated its gravity.

"What does he offer, Mother?"

"A thousand dollars only--perhaps a little more."

"Why that would be downright robbery."

"Not in the eye of the law. Ben, we are in the power of Squire
Davenport, and he is a hard man."

"I would like to give him a piece of my mind, mother. He might be in
better business than robbing you of your house."

"Do nothing hastily, Ben. There is only one thing that we can do to
save the house, and that is, to induce someone to advance the money
necessary to take up the mortgage."

"Can you think of anybody who would do it?"

Mrs. Barclay shook her head.

"There is no one in Pentonville who would be willing, and has the
money," she said. "I have a rich cousin in New York, but I have not
met him since I was married; he thought a great deal of me once, but I
suppose he scarcely remembers me now. He lived, when I last heard of
him, on Lexington Avenue, and his name is Absalom Peters."

"And he is rich?"

"Yes, very rich, I believe."

"I have a great mind to ask for a day's vacation from Mr. Crawford,
and go to New York to see him."

"I am afraid it would do no good."

"It would do no harm, except that it would cost something for
traveling expenses. But I would go as economically as possible. Have
I your permission, mother?"

"You can do as you like, Ben; I won't forbid you, though I have little
hope of its doing any good."

"Then I will try and get away Monday. To-morrow is Saturday, and I
can't be spared at the store; there is always more doing, you know, on
Saturday than any other day."

"I don't feel like giving any advice, Ben. Do as you please."

The next day, on his way home to dinner, Ben met his young rival of
the evening previous, Tom Davenport.

"How are you, Tom?" said Ben, nodding.

"I want to speak to you, Ben Barclay," said the young aristocrat,
pausing in his walk.

"Go ahead! I'm l