“I don’t expect to look very magnificent,” said Harry.  “You must tell your mother I am from the country.”

“I would make you an offer if I dared,” said Oscar.

“I am always open to a good offer.”

“It’s this:  I’m one size larger than you, and my last year’s suits are in that wardrobe.  If any will fit you, they are yours.”

“Thank you, Oscar,” said Harry; “I’ll accept your offer to-morrow.”

“Why not to-day?”

“You may not understand me, but when I first appear before your family, I don’t want to wear false colors.”

“I understand,” said Oscar, with instinctive delicacy.

An hour later, the bell rang for dinner.

Harry went down, and was introduced to his friend’s mother and sister.  The former was a true lady, refined and kindly, and her smile made our hero feel quite at home.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Walton,” she said.  “Oscar has spoken of you frequently.”

With Oscar’s sister Maud—­a beautiful girl two years younger than himself—­Harry felt a little more bashful; but the young lady soon entered into an animated conversation with him.

“Do you often come to Boston, Mr. Walton?” she asked.

“This is my first visit,” said Harry.

“Then I dare say Oscar will play all sorts of tricks upon you.  We had a cousin visit us from the country, and the poor fellow had a hard time.”

“Yes,” said Oscar, laughing, “I used to leave him at a street corner, and dodge into a doorway.  It was amusing to see his perplexity when he looked about, and couldn’t find me.”

“Shall you try that on me?” asked Harry.

“Very likely.”

“Then I’ll be prepared.”

“You might tie him with a rope, Mr. Walton,” said Maud, “and keep firm hold.”

“I will, if Oscar consents.”

“I will see about it.  But here is my father.  Father, this is my friend, Harry Walton.”

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Walton,” said Mr. Vincent.  “Then you belong to my profession?”

“I hope to, some time, sir; but I am only a printer as yet.”

“You are yet to rise from the ranks.  I know all about that.  I was once a compositor.”

Harry looked at the editor with great respect.  He was stout, squarely built, with a massive head and a thoughtful expression.  His appearance was up to Harry’s anticipations.  He felt that he would be prouder to be Mr. Vincent than any man in Boston, He could hardly believe that this man, who controlled so influential an organ, and was so honored in the community, was once a printer boy like himself.

“What paper are you connected with?” asked Mr. Vincent.

“The ‘Centreville Gazette.’”

“I have seen it.  It is quite a respectable paper.”

“But how different,” thought Harry, “from a great city daily!”

“Let us go out to dinner,” said Mr. Vincent, consulting his watch.  “I have an engagement immediately afterward.”