It was a large stone building, divided up into offices, to which Paul had been directed. Mr. Danforth's office he found after a little search, upon the second floor. He opened the door with a little embarrassment, and looked about him. In one corner was a small room, used as a more private office, the door of which was closed. In the larger room the only one whom he saw, was a boy, apparently about his own age, who was standing at a desk and writing. This boy looked around as Paul entered, and he at once recognized in him an old acquaintance. “George Dawkins!” he exclaimed in surprise. The latter answered in a careless indifferent tone, not exhibiting any very decided pleasure at meeting his old schoolmate. “Oh, it's you, Prescott, is it?” “Yes,” said Paul, “I haven't met you since you left our school.” “No, I believe we have not met,” said Dawkins, in the same tone as before. “How long have you been in this office?” asked our hero. “I really can't say,” said Dawkins, not looking up. “You can't say!” “No, I'm rather forgetful.” Paul could not help feeling chilled at the indifferent manner in which his advances were met. He had been really glad to see Dawkins, and had addressed him with cordiality. He could not conceal from himself that Dawkins did not seem inclined to respond to it. “Still,” thought Paul, extenuatingly, “perhaps that is his way.” As the conversation began to flag, Paul was reminded of his errand by Dawkins saying, in a tone which was half a sneer, “Have you any business with Mr. Danforth this morning, or did you merely come in out of curiosity?” “I have called to see Mr. Danforth,” said Paul. “He is usually pretty busy in the morning,” said Dawkins. “He directed me to call in the morning,” said Paul, sturdily. “Oh, indeed!” said Dawkins, a little surprised. “I wonder,” he thought, “what business this fellow can have with Mr. Danforth. Can he be fishing for a place?” “Mr. Danforth is engaged with a visitor just now,” he at length condescended to say; “if your time is not too valuable to wait, you can see him by-and-by.” “Thank you,” said Paul, rather nettled, “you are very polite.” To this Dawkins made no reply, but resumed his pen, and for the next ten minutes seemed entirely oblivious of Paul's presence. Our hero took up the morning paper, and began, as he had so often done before, to look over the list of wants, thinking it possible he might find some opening for himself. About ten minutes later the door of the inner office opened, and two gentlemen came out. One was a gentleman of fifty, a business friend of Mr. Danforth's, the other was Mr. Danforth himself. The former remarked, on seeing Paul, “Is this your son, Danforth?” “No,” said the merchant, nodding in a friendly manner to Paul. “That's a good joke,” thought Dawkins, chuckling to himself; “Mr. Danforth must be immensely flattered at having a sexton's adopted son taken for his.”