“They are well. Jimmy and Mary are going to school. Jimmy sells papers evenings to help me along.” “How old is the young rascal?” “Eight years old.” “Is he a chip of the old block, eh, Ellen?” “I hope not,” said the woman, heartily. Then, with a half frightened look, she added, “Don’t be offended with me, James, but I don’t want him to follow in your steps.” “No offense, Ellen,” said Barclay, laughingly. “I don’t pretend to be an angel, and I hope the kid will be more of one than I. And how are you yourself, old woman?” “I’ve had to work very hard, James,” sighed the woman. “It’s been all I can do to earn a poor living for the children.” “I wish I could help you, and perhaps I may. I’m expecting some money tomorrow, and I’m hanged if I don’t give you ten dollars of it.” “It would be a great help to me, James,” said his wife, with a momentary look of pleasure. “Are you going home now?” “Yes, James.” “I’ll go along, too, and see what sort of a crib you’ve got. Can you let me have some dinner?” “Yes, James, though it’ll be a poor one.” “O, I shan’t mind. Here, give me that basket. I’m stronger than you.” “Has he really reformed and become better?” thought Ellen, puzzled. She had never been used to such marks of attention from her husband. But he was in an amiable frame of mind. He had found a place of refuge till the next day, and then he would draw fifty dollars from his father--the first of many forced loans he promised himself. He lounged away the rest of the day at his wife’s poor room. When the children came home from school he received them with boisterous good nature. They seemed afraid of him, remembering his severity in earlier days, but this only seemed to amuse him. “That’s a pretty way to receive your loving father,” he said, laughingly. “Come here and sit on my knee, Mary.” The little girl obeyed with scared face, because she did not dare to refuse lest she should anger her father. So the day passed. James Barclay lay in bed late next morning, but about eleven o’clock started for New York, to meet the appointment with his father. A little before noon he ascended the staircase, and opened the door of the room which he had visited the day before. It was empty! His face darkened, and an unpleasant misgiving entered his mind. He knocked at the door of the opposite room, which was opened by a woman. “What has become of the old man who occupied the room opposite?” he asked. “He has moved,” answered Mrs. Duane. “Moved! When did he move?” “This morning, I believe.” “Where has he gone to?” “He didn’t leave word.” “The old fox!” muttered James Barclay. “He has gone to get rid of me. But I’ll follow him up, and sooner or later I’ll find him.” CHAPTER XIII. JAMES BARCLAY AT HOME.