Something unexpected.

“Our separation will only be temporary,” continued Mr. Gale, “but I do not wish to leave you unprovided for during my absence, I shall allow you five dollars a week while I am away.”

Andy brightened up.

“How kind you are, Mr. Gale!” he said.  “I don’t think you ought to do this.”

Walter Gale smiled.

“I can very well afford it,” he said; “so we will regard the matter as settled.”

“How soon must you go?”

“I shall start to-morrow—­my preparations will be easily made.  How would you like to go to New York to see me off?”

“I should be delighted,” answered Andy.  “I have only been to New York twice in my life.”

“Then you will enjoy the day.  You can take the afternoon train home.”

At the farm, Mr. and Mrs. Grant heard with regret of Mr. Gale’s departure, but they were pleased to hear that Andy would be in receipt of an income.

“How will you fill up your time, Andy?” asked his father.

“I have my books, and will keep up my Latin and Greek.  I will pay you four dollars a week, and you can hire a boy for that to help you.  I think I can spend my time more profitably in studying.”

“Do you think Mr. Gale will return?”

“He has promised to do so.  I am to see him off to-morrow.”

“Are you going to trust that boy alone in New York?” asked his Aunt Jane, with asperity.

“Why, what could happen to me?” asked Andy, indignantly.

“You might get run over.”

“I am not a little boy, Aunt Jane.  I can take care of myself.”

“You may meet with an accident for all your smartness.”

“I think Andy is old enough to take care of himself,” said his father, mildly.

“Oh, well! have it your own way.  You can’t say but I’ve warned you,” and she sniffed severely.

“I wonder what makes Aunt Jane so disagreeable,” thought Andy.

“Perhaps you’d like to go and take care of him,” suggested Mr. Grant, with a smile.  “You are old enough to take care of yourself.”

“You needn’t twit me with my age, Sterling,” said Jane, with an injured sniff.

“I don’t.  Old age is honorable.”

This made matters worse.

“You talk as if I was seventy-five.  I don’t consider myself an old person.”

In spite of the melancholy presentiment of Aunt Jane, Andy set out for New York with Mr. Gale.  An hour and a half brought them to the metropolis.

“I should like to show you something of the city, Andy,” said his companion, “but I shall have to spend the time in shopping.”

“I shall see something of the city if I go about with you.”

“That is true.”

At one o’clock they went to the Sinclair House, on Broadway, to dine.  They selected a table where there was but one other guest, who seemed known to Walter Gale.