“I intended to write from Meadville,” faltered Sidney.

“But, as usual, you did not carry out your good intentions.  Sidney, for the first time in my life I am ashamed of you—­heartily ashamed.”

By degrees they drew the whole story from Sidney; and, though they blamed him, they could not but feel sorry for him, so acute was his remorse.

“I hope this affair will be a lesson to you as long as you live,” said Mr. Dent, as he dismissed the remorseful boy to his room.

Had it not been so late, Sidney would have gone that night to see Harry Stuart, but as it was, he was up the next morning by six o’clock, and in the cold, gray light of the first day of the New Year hurried to the little brown cottage.

He found Mrs. Stuart sitting by the bedside of her son, who, never strong, had been utterly prostrated by the trouble which had come upon him, and for two days he had been delirious with fever.

He did not recognize Sidney, and the latter could hardly repress his tears as he took the young man’s hot hand in his own and looked down at his flushed face and unnaturally bright eyes, and heard him mutter incoherently his denial of the theft of which he had been suspected.

That was the only call Sidney made that day.  All else was forgotten as he sat by Harry Stuart’s bedside hour after hour, trying to atone for the pain and grief his carelessness had caused.

Harry got well at last and was restored to his former place with an increase in salary, and he and Sidney were firm friends for the rest of their lives; but Sidney never forgot the lesson he had learned and the good resolutions he had made that New Year’s Day in the little brown cottage.

No one ever again heard him say, “I fully intended.”  To intend was to do with him at last.

NEW YEAR’S EVE.

Ye bells! peal forth
From south to north,
No longer let your iron tongues be dumb: 
Up to the rafters swing,
Make all the country ring
An omen of a Happy Year to come,

[This Story began in No. 2.]

ANDY FLETCHER,

the Story of a Boy with a Purpose.

by JOHN RUSSELL CORYELL,

Author of “Cast Adrift; or, Ned Carroll’s
Promise,” etc.

CHAPTER IX.

Police Headquarters.

“Who are you?  What are you talking about?” demanded one of the detectives of Andy, after the latter had stepped forward with his exclamation that it was not the little boy.

A curiously malevolent expression crossed the face of the man with the child as he bent his eyes on Andy; but he did not speak to him then, but rather to the crowd that had quickly gathered,

“What does all this mean?  Why am I stopped in this way?  Is there a policeman here?  Call a policeman, somebody, please.  Upon my word—­a pretty pass this, that a man may be molested in a public place in such a fashion!”