Jim Travers was laid away to rest in the beautiful country cemetery near the home of Farmer Pitcairn, and between it and the town of Bellemore.  In due time a plain, tasteful shaft was erected to his memory, on which, below his name, date of birth and death, were carved the expressive words:—­

“He was a tried and true friend.”

It took a good deal of the earnings of Tom Gordon to erect this tribute to the departed youth.  Mr. Pitcairn 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 white, while his features were regular.  He must have been an unusually handsome man in his younger days, and would still attract admiration wherever seen.