One after another Jack found the envelops full of nicely printed cards and circulars, telling him how and where to find different kinds of goods. "That makes eight," he said; "and every one a sell. But,--jingo!" It was a blue envelope, and when he opened it his fingers came upon a dollar bill. "Mr. Guilderaufenberg's a trump!" he exclaimed; and he added, gratefully, "I'd only about two dollars and a half left. He's only written three lines." They were kindly words, however, ending with: I have not tell the ladies; but you should be pay for the stateroom. I hope you have a good time. F. VON GUILDERAUFENBERG. The next envelope was white and square; and when it came open Jack found another dollar bill. "She's a real good woman!" he said, when he read his name and these words: I say nothing to anybody; but you should have pay for your stateroom. You was so kind. In haste, GERTRUDE VON GUILDERAUFENBERG. "I'll go and see them some day," said Jack. He had opened the eleventh envelope, which was square and pink, and out came another dollar bill. Jack read his own name again, followed by: We go this minute. I have not told them. You should have pay for your stateroom. Thanks. You was so kind. MARIE HILDEBRAND. "Now, if she isn't one of the most thoughtful women in the world!" said Jack; "and what's this?" Square, gray, with an ornamental seal, was the twelfth envelope, and out of it came a fourth dollar bill, and this note: For the stateroom. I have told not the others. With thanks of DOLISKA POD----SKI. It was a fine, small, pointed, and wandering handwriting, and Jack in vain strove to make out the letters in the middle of the Polish lady's name. "I don't care!" he said. "She's kind, too. So are all the rest of them; and Mr. Guilderaufenberg's one of the best fellows I ever met. Now I've got over six dollars, and I can make some more right away." He pocketed his money, and felt more confident than ever; and he walked out of the Hotel Dantzic just as his father, at home in Crofield, was reading to Mrs. Ogden and Aunt Melinda and the children the letter he had written in Albany, on Saturday. They all had their comments to make, but at the end of it the tall blacksmith said to his wife: "There's one thing certain, Mary. I won't let go of any of that land till after they've run the railway through it." "Land?" said Aunt Melinda. "Why, it's nothing but gravel. They can't do anything with it." "It joins mine," said Mr. Ogden; "and I own more than an acre behind the shop. We'll see whether the railroad will make any difference. Well, the boy's reached the city long before this!" There was silence for a moment after that, and then Mr. Ogden went over to the shop. He was not very cheerful, for he began to feel that Jack was really gone from home. In Mertonville, Mary Ogden was helping Mrs. Murdoch in her housework, and seemed to be disposed to look out of the window, rather than to talk.