The old dog, Swiss, had, with difficulty, been dragged from the grave of his former master, Uncle Ike, but no force, or persuasion, could induce him to leave the old house. Probably the name “Quincy” had a familiar sound and he wagged his tail slowly as an evidence of recognition and welcome. The most explosive greeting came from Mrs. Crowley. “An' it's the foine young man he is, the picter of his feyther.” She would have taken him in her arms and hugged him but for the presence of others, but, afterwards, when alone with him she patted his curly head and told him that he would have to be a fine man to be as good as his father. Everywhere he went his father was talked about and praised, and his mother had taught him to love his father's memory. Thus early the ambition to be like his father was instilled in the boy's mind. Confident as Alice was that her husband was still living, Aunt Ella had protested effectually against her implanting any such hope in the child's mind, and he had been brought up with the belief that his father had died before he was born. There was one place where his father's praises were faint, and that was at the grocery store. [ILLUSTRATION: “'I S'POSE ONE OF THESE DAYS YOU'LL BE WEIGHIN' SUGAR AND DRAWIN' 'LASSES.'”] “Ah, my young man,” said Mr. Obadiah Strout, on his first visit, “your father's money started this business, but I've worked mighty hard to build it up to what it is now. I s'pose one of these days you'll be weighin' sugar and drawin' 'lasses.” “I guess not,” exclaimed Hiram. “Rich men's sons don't us'ally take to their father's business.” “You're right for once, Hiram,” Mr. Strout acknowledged. “They uzally run through the money, bust the biz'ness and bring up in jail.” “Well, this young fellow won't,” cried Hiram, hotly. “He's goin' to be a great man like his father, won't you, Bub?” “Bub” took a handful of raisins from an open box, and eyed his questioner wonderingly. “There's many a slip 'twixt the cow and the churn,” said Mr. Strout as he took a ten cent cigar from the case and lighted it. Perhaps the sight of the son recalled a scene in the same shop many years before on Quincy's first visit to Mason's Corner when a box of cigars had been the subject of an animated discussion between the boy's father and himself, followed by a passage-at-arms--or, more correctly speaking--fists. We humans are only veneered with politeness or good nature; underneath, man's revengeful nature lies dormant--but not dead. Mrs. Hawkins was delighted to see him. “Olive, don't you think he's the likeness of his father?” Olive agreed, because she had found that agreement with her employer's opinions made life pleasant, and also led to many desirable additions to her wardrobe.