"Herbert Barton?" suggested the squire, with a slight frown. "Yes; he said that was his name." "They live in the village," said his nephew, shortly. "They're poor, ain't they?" "Yes; Barton was not a forehanded man. He didn't know how to accumulate money." "I suppose he left very little to his widow." "Very little. However, I have given the boy a place in my factory, and I believe his mother earns a trifle by covering base-balls. They don't want for anything--that is, anything in reason. "Bert Barton seems a likely boy." "Oh, he's as good as the average of boys in his position." "I suppose he and Percy are quite intimate, being cousins." "Indeed we are not!" returned Percy, tossing his head. "His position is very different from mine." Uncle Jacob surveyed Percy in innocent wonder. "Still, he's kin to you," he observed. "That doesn't always count," said Percy. "He has his friends, and I have mine. I don't believe in mixing classes." "I expect things _have_ changed since I was a boy," said Uncle Jacob, mildly. "Then, all the boys were friendly and sociable, no matter whether they were rich or poor." "I agree with Percy," broke in Mrs. Marlowe, stiffly. "His position in life will be very different from that of the boy you refer to. Any early intimacy, even if we encouraged it, could not well be kept up in after-life." "Perhaps you are right," said the old man. "I've been away so long at the mines that I haven't kept up with the age or the fashions." Percy smiled, as his glance rested on his uncle's creased suit, and he felt quite ready to agree with what he said. "I was thinkin' how pleasant it would be if you would invite Mary and her boy to tea--we are all related, you know. We could talk over old times and scenes, and have a real social time." Mrs. Marlowe seemed horror-struck at the suggestion. "I don't think it would be convenient," she said, coldly. "It would be better for you to see Mrs. Barton at her own house," put in the squire, hastily. "Well, perhaps it would." "By the way, Uncle Jacob, I hope your experiences of California are pleasant," insinuated Squire Marlowe. "They're mixed, Albert. I've had my ups and downs." "I have heard of large fortunes being made there," pursued the squire. "I suppose there's some truth in what we hear?" "To be sure! Why, ten years from the time I went to the mines I had a hundred thousand dollars deposited to my credit in a Sacramento bank." Squire Marlowe's eyes sparkled with pleasure. It was just what he had been hoping to find out. So Uncle Jacob was rich, after all! The squire's manner became even more gracious, and he pressed upon his relative another plate of ice cream. "No, thank you, Albert," said the old man. "I'm used to plain livin'. It isn't often I sit down to a meal like this. Do you know, there's nothing suits me better than a dinner of corned beef and cabbage."