Arthur Hazarelle was led on orphan when quite young, and his little patrimony was just sufficient to educate and support him till he was fourteen years of age. From that time until his twenty-fifth year he had changed from one occupation to another, sometimes twice in a year, and it could not be said that he had a particular talent for any branch of business. He certainly was ambitious, and he exerted himself to the utmost for every employer he was with; but though useful and exemplary in his conduct, yet some unforeseen event set him adrift. It was impossible almost to count up the number of places he filled during the ten years before our little story commences, the last one was about as promising as any in which he had been engaged, but in one week from the time he had this conversation with Abram Snow, the auctioneer with whom he was engaged took it into his head to die, and even the thousand dollars worth of odds and ends died with him. Poor Arthur! after paying his week’s board and his washerwoman he had not more than a dollar in his pocket, and he was honest enough to tell this to his landlady. Women are tender-hearted, and Mrs. May was as weak as the rest of her sex; so she pitied Arthur, and talked over her feelings before one of her boarders, a surly, ugly old man, who never opened his lips without finding fault, and who was always watching Arthur from the corner of his eye. “Good enough for him—better than he deserves, Mrs. May,” said Mr. Crosbie, “a rolling stone gathers no moss; why, the wealth of the Indies would not stick to such a squib—here, there and every where. To my knowledge he has changed places twice or thrice a year ever since he was fourteen years old.” “That may all be true, Mr. Crosbie; but from what I know of him it was none of his fault. I am quite unhappy about him, for I know very well that he will not stay one moment in my house unless he can get money enough to pay his board.” Mr. Crosbie made no answer but—“humph”—and left the room. He was a man apparently well advanced in years, ugly in face, and all over out of joint, he meddled with no man’s business, and in return, prevented others from interfering with his. But of all the eyes that were ever set in mortal head his were the most keen and piercing—he seemed to read the bottom of your soul at a glance. As he left the room he met Arthur Hazerelle with a small traveling trunk in his hand, and on Mrs. May coming out, he shook hands with her cheerfully, and wished her a good-morning. He had often felt uneasy before the searching expression of Mr. Crosbie’s eye, and it made him actually shudder at this moment. He seemed to have lost the power of will. “Which way are you bound?” said the old gentleman, fixing his eye still more firmly on Arthur’s face. “If you are going to Berrydale, back of the granite hills, here is a letter for you.”