“How can I spare you, Philip?” said Mr. Carter regretfully.  “I know your father has the best right to you, but I don’t like to give you up.”

“You need not,” said Mr. Granville.  “I propose to remove to New York; but in the summer I shall come to my estate near Chicago, and hope, since the house is large enough, that I may persuade you and your niece, Mrs. Forbush, to be my guests.”

This arrangement was carried out.  Mrs. Forbush and her daughter are the recognized heirs of Mr. Carter, who is wholly estranged from the Pitkins.  He ascertained, through a detective, that the attack upon Philip by the man who stole from him the roll of bills was privately instigated by Mr. Pitkin himself, in the hope of getting Philip into trouble.  Mr. Carter, thereupon, withdrew his capital from the firm, and Mr. Pitkin is generally supposed to be on the verge of bankruptcy.  At any rate, his credit is very poor, and there is a chance that the Pitkins may be reduced to comparative poverty.

“I won’t let Lavinia suffer,” said Uncle Oliver; “if the worst comes to the worst, I will settle a small income, say twelve hundred dollars, on her, but we can never be friends.”

As Phil grew older—­he is now twenty-one—­it seems probable that he and Mr. Carter may be more closely connected, judging from his gallant attentions to Julia Forbush, who has developed into a charming young lady.  Nothing would suit Mr. Carter better, for there is no one who stands higher in his regard than Philip Granville, the Errand Boy.

FRED SARGENT’S REVENGE.

Fred Sargent, upon this day from which my story dates, went to the head of his Latin class, in the high school of Andrewsville.  The school was a fine one, the teachers strict, the classes large, the boys generally gentlemanly, and the moral tone pervading the whole, of the very best character.

To lead a class in a school like this was an honor of which any boy might have been proud; and Fred, when he heard his name read off at the head of the roll, could have thrown up his well-worn Latin grammar, which he happened to have in his hand just at that moment, and hurrahed.  It was quite a wonder to him afterward that he did not.

As a class, boys are supposed to be generous.  I really don’t know whether they deserve to be considered so or not, but some four or five only in this large school envied Fred. The rest would probably have hurrahed with him; for Fred was a “capital good fellow,” and quite a favorite.

“Bully for you!” whispered Ned Brown, his right-hand neighbor; but Ned was instantly disgraced, the eye of the teacher catching the words as they dropped from his lips.

When school was over several of the boys rushed to the spot where Fred—­his cap in his hand, and his dark hair blowing about every way—­was standing.

“I say,” said James Duncan, “I thought you would get it.  You’ve worked like a Trojan and you deserve it.”