That evening, just before going to bed, Mrs. Brent opened a trunk and drew from it a folded paper.

She read as follows—­for it was her husband’s will: 

“To the boy generally known as Philip Brent, and supposed, though incorrectly, to be my son, I bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars, and direct the same to be paid over to any one whom he may select as guardian, to hold in trust for him till he attains the age of twenty-one.”

“He need never know of this,” said Mrs. Brent to herself in a low tone.  “I will save it for Jonas.”

She held the paper a moment, as if undecided whether to destroy it, but finally put it carefully back in the secret hiding-place from which she had taken it.

“He is leaving home of his own accord,” she whispered.  “Henceforth he will probably keep away.  That suits me well, but no one can say I drove him to it.”

CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Lionel Lake.

Six months before it might have cost Philip a pang to leave home.  Then his father was living, and from him the boy had never received aught but kindness.  Even his step-mother, though she secretly disliked him, did not venture to show it, and secure in the affections of his supposed father, he did not trouble himself as to whether Mrs. Brent liked him or not.  As for Jonas, he was cautioned by his mother not to get himself into trouble by treating Phil badly, and the boy, who knew on which side his interests lay, faithfully obeyed.  It was only after the death of Mr. Brent that both Jonas and his mother changed their course, and thought it safe to snub Philip.

Planktown was seventy-five miles distant from New York, and the fare was two dollars and a quarter.

This was rather a large sum to pay, considering Phil’s scanty fund, but he wished to get to the great city as soon as possible, and he decided that it would be actually cheaper to ride than to walk, considering that he would have to buy his meals on the way.

He took his seat in the cars, placing a valise full of underclothes on the seat next him.  The train was not very full, and the seat beside him did not appear to be required.

Mile after mile they sped on the way, and Phil looked from the window with interest at the towns through which they passed.  There are very few boys of his age—­sixteen—­who do not like to travel in the cars.  Limited as were his means, and uncertain as were his prospects, Phil felt not only cheerful, but actually buoyant, as every minute took him farther away from Planktown, and so nearer the city where he hoped to make a living at the outset, and perhaps his fortune in the end.

Presently—­perhaps half way on—­a young man, rather stylishly dressed, came into the car.  It was not at a station, and therefore it seemed clear that he came from another car.

He halted when he reached the seat which Phil occupied.