He read these lines: 

“This is the picture of the boy who was mysteriously left in the charge of Mr. Brent, April, 1863, and never reclaimed.  I have reared him as my own son, but think it best to enter this record of the way in which he came into my hands, and to preserve by the help of art his appearance at the time he first came to us.  Gerald Brent.”

“Do you recognize this handwriting?” asked Mrs. Brent.

“Yes,” answered Philip in a dazed tone.

“Perhaps,” she said triumphantly, “you will doubt my word now.”

“May I have this picture?” asked Philip, without answering her.

“Yes; you have as good a claim to it as any one.”

“And the paper?”

“The paper I prefer to keep myself,” said Mrs. Brent, nodding her head suspiciously.  “I don’t care to have my only proof destroyed.”

Philip did not seem to take her meaning, but with the daguerreotype in his hand, he left the room.

“I say, mother,” chuckled Jonas, his freckled face showing his enjoyment, “it’s a good joke on Phil, isn’t it?  I guess he won’t be quite so uppish after this.”

CHAPTER III.

Phil’s sudden Resolution.

When Phil left the presence of Mrs. Brent, he felt as if he had been suddenly transported to a new world.  He was no longer Philip Brent, and the worst of it was that he did not know who he was.  In his tumultuous state of feeling, however, one thing seemed clear—­his prospects were wholly changed, and his plans for the future also.  Mrs. Brent had told him that he was wholly dependent upon her.  Well, he did not intend to remain so.  His home had not been pleasant at the best.  As a dependent upon the bounty of such a woman it would be worse.  He resolved to leave home and strike out for himself, not from any such foolish idea of independence as sometimes leads boys to desert a good home for an uncertain skirmish with the world, but simply be cause he felt now that he had no real home.

To begin with he would need money, and on opening his pocket-book he ascertained that his available funds consisted of only a dollar and thirty-seven cents.  That wasn’t quite enough to begin the world with.  But he had other resources.  He owned a gun, which a friend of his would be ready to take off his hands.  He had a boat, also, which he could probably sell.

On the village street he met Reuben Gordon, a young journeyman carpenter, who was earning good wages, and had money to spare.

“How are you, Phil,” said Reuben in a friendly way.

“You are just the one I want to meet,” said Phil earnestly.  “Didn’t you tell me once you would like to buy my gun?”

“Yes.  Want to sell it?”

“No, I don’t; but I want the money it will bring.  So I’ll sell it if you’ll buy.”

“What d’ye want for it?” asked Reuben cautiously.