“To-day,” went on Mr. Winslow, “I have received a still larger dividend. I was passing along Buttonwood street, when I met old Mr. Davis coming out of a house, the rent of which, from its appearance, was not less than two hundred and twenty-five dollars. ‘You don’t live here, of course,’ said I, for I knew the old man’s income to be small—not over six or seven dollars a week. ‘O, yes I do,’ he made answer, with a smile. I turned and looked at the house again. ‘How comes this?’ I asked. ‘You must be getting better off in the world.’ ‘So I am,’ was his reply. ‘Has anybody left you a little fortune?’ I inquired. ‘No, but you have helped me to one,’ said he. ‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Davis,’ I made answer. ‘Edward rents the house for us,’ said the old man. ‘Do you understand now?’ “I understood him perfectly. It was then that I received the largest dividend on my investment which has yet come into my hands. If they go on increasing at this rate, I shall soon be rich.” “Rather unsubstantial kind of riches,” was remarked by the friend. “That which elevates and delights the mind can hardly be called unsubstantial,” replied Mr. Winslow. “Gold will not always do this.” The friend sighed involuntarily. The remarks of Mr. Winslow caused thoughts to flit over his mind that were far from being agreeable. A year or two more went by, and then an addition was made to the firm of Webb & Waldron. Edward Davis received the offer of an interest in the business, which he unhesitatingly accepted. From that day he was in the road to fortune. Three years afterward one of the partners died, when his interest was increased. Twenty-five years from the time Mr. Winslow, acting from a benevolent impulse, proposed to send young Davis to school, have passed. One day, about this period, Mr. Winslow, who had met with a number of reverses in business, was sitting in his counting-room, with a troubled look on his face, when the mercantile friend before-mentioned came in. His countenance was pale and disturbed. “We are ruined! ruined!” said he, with much agitation. Mr. Winslow started to his feet. “Speak!” he exclaimed. “What new disaster is about to sweep over me?” “The house of Toledo & Co., in Rio, has suspended.” Mr. Winslow struck his hands together, and sunk down into the chair from which he had arisen. “Then it is all over,” he murmured. “All over!” “It is all over with me,” said the other. “A longer struggle would be fruitless. But for this I might have weathered the storm. Twenty thousand dollars of drafts drawn against my last shipment are back protested, and will be presented to-morrow. I cannot lift them. So ends this matter. So closes a business life of nearly forty years, in commercial dishonor and personal ruin!” “Are you certain that they have failed?” asked Mr. Winslow, with something like hope in his tone of voice.