“Yes, I have done so; but that’s past.  I have been a ’fine, generous fellow,’ long enough to get in debt and mar my prospects for life, perhaps; but I am going to assume a new character.  No doubt the very ones who have had so many rides, oyster suppers, and theatre tickets at my expense, will all at once discover that I am as mean and selfish as Mervin; but it’s no great odds.  I only wish I had been as truly noble and generous in the right quarters as he has been.”

“You are in a strange humour to-day.”

“I am in a changed humour.  That it is so very strange, I do not see—­unless for me to think wisely is strange, and perhaps it is.”

“Well, all I have to say is, that I, for one, do not blame you, even if I do lose a fine ride into the country now and then,” was the frank response.

Peyton went to work in the matter of reform in right good earnest, but he found it hard work; old habits and inclinations were very strong.  Still he had some strength of mind, and he brought this into as vigorous exercise as it was possible for him to do, mainly with success, but sometimes with gentle lapses into self-indulgence.

His mother lived in a neighbouring town, and was in humble circumstances.  She supported herself by keeping a shop for the sale of various little articles.  The old lady sat behind her counter, one afternoon, sewing, and thinking of her only son.

“Ah, me!” she sighed, letting her hands fall wearily in her lap, “I thought Henry would have done something for himself long before this; but he is a wild, free-hearted boy, and I suppose spends every thing as he goes along, just as his father did.  I’m afraid he will never do any thing for himself.  It is a long time since he wrote home.  Ah, me!”

And the mother lifted her work again, and strained her dimmed eyes over it.

“Here’s a letter for you at last, Mother Peyton,” said the well-known voice of the postman, breaking in upon her just at this moment.  “That boy of yours don’t write home as often as he used to.”

“A letter from Henry!  Oh, that is pleasant!  Dear boy! he doesn’t forget his mother.”

“No, one would think not,” muttered the postman, as he walked away, “considering how often he writes to her.”

With trembling hands, Mrs. Peyton broke the seal; a bank-bill crumpled in her fingers as she opened the letter.  A portion of its contents was: 

“DEAR MOTHER—­I have had some very serious thoughts of late about my way of living.  You know I never liked to be considered mean; this led me to be, what seemed to everybody, very generous.  Everybody was pleased to eat, and drink, and ride at my expense; but no one seemed inclined to let me do the same at his expense.  I have been getting a good salary for six or seven years, and, for a part of that time, as much as a thousand dollars.  I am ashamed to say that I have not a farthing laid by; nay, what is worse, I owe a good many little bills.