“That’s so, father,” said Tom, who was ready enough to give his consent to any proposition of a selfish nature.  “Charity begins at home.”

With Tom, by the way, it not only began at home, but it ended there, and the same may be said of his father.  From time to time Mr. Stanton’s name was found in the list of donors to some charitable object, provided his benevolence was likely to obtain sufficient publicity, Mr. Stanton did not believe in giving in secret.  What was the use of giving away money unless you could get credit for it?  That was the principle upon which he always acted.

“I suppose,” continued Tom, “this country cousin of mine wears cowhide boots and overalls, and has got rough, red hands like a common laborer.  I wonder what Sam Paget would say if I should introduce such a fellow to him as my cousin.  I rather guess he would not want to be quite so intimate with me as he is now.”

If anything had been needed, this consideration would have been sufficient to deter Mr. Stanton from sending for his nephew.  He could not permit the social standing of his family to be compromised by the presence of a poor relation from the country, rough and unpolished as he doubtless was.

Maria, too, who had been for some time silent, here contributed to strengthen the effect of Tom’s words.

“Yes,” said she, “and Laura Brooks, my most intimate friend, who is shocked at anything vulgar or countrified—­I wouldn’t have her know that I have such a cousin—­oh, not for the world!”

“There will be no occasion for it,” said her father, decidedly.  “I shall write at once to this Dr. Kent, explaining to him my views and wishes, and how impossible it is for me to do as he so inconsiderately suggests.”

“It’s the wisest thing you can do, Mr. Stanton,” said his wife, who was to the full as selfish as her husband.

“What is his name, father?” asked Maria.

“Whose name?”

“The boy’s.”

“Herbert Mason.”

“Herbert?  I thought it might be Jonathan, or Zeke, or some such name.  Herbert isn’t at all countrified.”

“No,” said Tom, slyly; “of course not.  We all know why you like that name.”

“Oh, you’re mighty wise, Mr. Tom!” retorted his sister.

“It’s because you like Herbert Dartmouth; but it isn’t any use.  He’s in love with Lizzie Graves.”

“You seem to know all about it,” said Maria, with vexation; for Tom was not far from right in speaking of her preference for Herbert Dartmouth.

“Of course I do,” said Tom; “I ought to, for he told me so himself.”

“I don’t believe it!” said Maria, who looked ready to cry.

“Well, you needn’t; but it’s so.”

“Be quiet, children,” said Mrs. Stanton.  “Thomas, you mustn’t plague your sister.”

“Don’t take it so hard, Maria,” said Tom, in rather an aggravating tone.  “There’s other boys you could get.  I guess you could get Jim Gorham for a beau, if you tried hard enough.”