As he reached the street, he saw a boy scudding along under an umbrella, with a package under his arm.  Taking him for a newsboy, he called; “Here, boy!  Give me some papers.”  The lad had so shielded his face from the rain and the house that he had not seen Mr. Belcher; and when he looked up he turned pale, and simply said:  “I’m not a newsboy;” and then he ran away as if he were frightened.

There was something in the look that arrested Mr. Belcher’s attention.  He was sure he had seen the lad before, but where, he could not remember.  The face haunted him—­haunted him for hours, even when in the cheerful presence of Mrs. Dillingham, with whom he spent a long and delightful hour.  She was rosy, and sweet, and sympathetic in her morning wrapper—­more charming, indeed, than he had ever seen her in evening dress.  She inquired for Mrs. Belcher and the children, and heard with great good humor his account of his first collision with his New York servants.  When he went out from her inspiring and gracious presence he found his self-complacency restored.  He had simply been hungry for her; so his breakfast was complete.  He went back to his house with a mingled feeling of jollity and guilt, but the moment he was with his family the face of the boy returned.  Where had he seen him?  Why did the face give him uneasiness?  Why did he permit himself to be puzzled by it?  No reasoning, no diversion could drive it from his mind.  Wherever he turned during the long day and evening that white, scared face obtruded itself upon him.  He had noticed, as the lad lifted his umbrella, that he carried a package of books under his arm, and naturally concluded that, belated by the rain, he was on his way to school.  He determined, therefore, to watch him on the following morning, his own eyes reinforced by those of his oldest boy.

The dark day passed away at last, and things were brought into more homelike order by the wife of the house, so that the evening was cozy and comfortable; and when the street lamps were lighted again and the stars came out, and the north wind sounded its trumpet along the avenue, the spirits of the family rose to the influence.

On the following morning, as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, he, with his boy, took a position at one of the windows, to watch for the lad whose face had so impressed and puzzled him.  On the other side of the avenue a tall man came out, with a green bag under his arm, stepped into a passing stage, and rolled away.  Ten minutes later two lads emerged with their books slung over their shoulders, and crossed toward them.

“That’s the boy—­the one on the left,” said Mr. Belcher.  At the same moment the lad looked up, and apparently saw the two faces watching him, for he quickened his pace.

“That’s Harry Benedict,” exclaimed Mr. Belcher’s son and heir.  The words were hardly out of his mouth when Mr. Belcher started from his chair, ran down-stairs with all the speed possible within the range of safety, and intercepted the lads at a side door, which opened upon the street along which they were running.