This was the way that it happened: 

Phil soon tired of the room he had taken in Fifth Street.  It was not neatly kept, and was far from comfortable.  Then again, he found that the restaurants, cheap as they were, were likely to absorb about all his salary, though the bill-of-fare was far from attractive.

Chance took him through a side-street, between Second and Third Avenues, in the neighborhood of Thirteenth Street.

Among the three and four-story buildings that lined the block was one frame-house, two-story-and-basement, on which he saw a sign, “Board for Gentlemen.”  He had seen other similar signs, but his attention was specially drawn to this by seeing a pleasant-looking woman enter the house with the air of proprietor.  This woman recalled to Philip his own mother, to whom she bore a striking resemblance.

“I would like to board with one whose face recalled that of my dear dead mother,” thought Phil, and on the impulse of the moment, just after the woman had entered, he rang the door-bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by the woman he had just seen enter.

It seemed to Phil almost as if he were looking into his mother’s face, and he inquired in an unsteady voice: 

“Do you take boarders?”

“Yes,” was the answer.  “Won’t you step in?”

CHAPTER XIII.

Phil’s new home.

The house was poorly furnished with cheap furniture, but there was an unexpected air of neatness about it.  There is a great difference between respectable and squalid poverty.  It was the first of these that was apparent in the small house in which our hero found himself.

“I am looking for a boarding-place,” said Philip.  “I cannot afford to pay a high price.”

“And I should not think of asking a high price for such plain accommodations as I can offer,” said Mrs. Forbush.  “What sort of a room do you desire?”

“A small room will answer.”

“I have a hall-bedroom at the head of the stairs.  Will you go up and look at it?”

“I should like to do so.”

Mrs. Forbush led the way up a narrow staircase, and Philip followed her.

Opening the door of the small room referred to, she showed a neat bed, a chair, a wash-stand, and a few hooks from which clothing might be hung.  It was plain enough, but there was an air of neatness which did not characterize his present room.

“I like the room,” he said, brightening up.  “How much do you charge for this room and board?”

“Four dollars.  That includes breakfast and supper,” answered Mrs. Forbush.  “Lunch you provide for yourself.”

“That will be satisfactory,” said Phil.  “I am in a place down town, and I could not come to lunch, at any rate.”

“When would you like to come, Mr.——?” said the widow interrogatively.

“My name is Philip Brent.”