And the boy’s face flushed, and his eyes suffused.

“Not very well, you say?” Mr. Everett spoke with kindness, and in a tone of interest.  “Not sick, I hope?”

“No, sir; not very sick.  But”——­

“But what, John,” said Mr., Everett, encouragingly.

“She’s in trouble,” half stammered the boy, while the colour deepened on his face.

“Ah, indeed?  I’m sorry for that.  What is the trouble, John?”

The tears which John had been vainly striving to repress now gushed over his face, and, with a boyish shame for the weakness, he turned away and struggled for a time with his overmastering feelings.  Mr. Everett was no little moved by so unexpected an exhibition.  He waited with a new-born consideration for the boy, not unmingled with respect, until a measure of calmness was restored.

“John,” he then said, “if your mother is in trouble, it may be in my power to relieve her.”

“O sir!” exclaimed the lad eagerly, coming up to Mr. Everett, and, in the forgetfulness of the moment, laying his small hand upon that of his employer, “if you will, you can.”

Hard indeed would have been the heart that could have withstood the appealing, eyes lifted by John Levering to the face of Mr. Everett.  But Mr. Everett had not a hard heart.  Love of self and the world had encrusted it with indifference toward others, but the crust was now broken through.

“Speak freely, my good lad,” said he, kindly.  “Tell me of your mother.  What is her trouble?”

“We are very poor, sir.”  Tremulous and mournful was the boy’s voice.  “And mother isn’t well.  She does all she can; and my wages help a little.  But there are three of us children; and I am the oldest.  None of the rest can earn any thing.  Mother couldn’t help getting behind with the rent, sir, because she hadn’t the money to pay it with.  This morning, the man who owns the house where we live came for some money, and when mother told him that she had none, he got, oh, so angry! and frightened us all.  He said, if the rent wasn’t paid by to-morrow, he’d turn us all into the street.  Poor mother!  She went to bed sick.”

“How much does your mother owe the man?” asked Mr. Everett.

“Oh, it’s a great deal, sir.  I’m afraid she’ll never be able to pay it; and I don’t know what we’ll do.”

“How much?”

“Fourteen dollars, sir,” answered the lad.

“Is that all?” And Mr. Everett thrust his hand into his pocket.  “Here are twenty dollars.  Run home to your mother, and give them to her with my compliments.”

The boy grasped the money eagerly, and, as he did so, in an irrepressible burst of gratitude, kissed the hand from which he received it.  He did not speak, for strong emotion choked all utterance; but Mr. Everett saw his heart in his large, wet eyes, and it was overflowing with thankfulness.

“Stay a moment,” said the broker, as John Levering was about passing through the door.  “Perhaps I had better write a note to your mother.”