“What if she did? Can’t I buy them just as well as you? Hand over that money, Robert Coverdale, or it will be the worse for you.” “I have no money to hand you.” “Why haven’t you? You haven’t had a chance to spend it yet. You needn’t lie about it or I will give you a flogging!” “I never lie,” said Robert proudly. “I told you I haven’t got the money and I haven’t.” “Then what have you done with it--lost it, eh?” “I have done nothing with it. Mrs. Jones wouldn’t pay me.” “And why wouldn’t she pay you?” “Because she said that you were owing her husband money for drink and she would credit it on your account.” As Robert said this he looked his uncle full in the eye and his uncle flushed a little with transient shame. “So aunt must go without her tea and bread,” continued Robert. John Trafton had the grace to be ashamed and said: “I’ll fix this with Jones. You can go to the store and get the tea and tell Sands to charge it to me.” “He won’t do it,” said Robert. “He’s refused more than once.” “If he won’t that isn’t my fault. I’ve done all I could.” Trafton turned back and resumed his seat on the porch, where he remained till about ten o’clock. It was his usual evening resort, for he did not think it necessary to go home until it was time to go to bed. Though Robert had no money to spend, he kept on his way slowly toward the village store. He felt mortified and angry. “Poor Aunt Jane!” he said to himself. “It’s a shame that she should have to go without her tea. She hasn’t much to cheer her up. Mrs. Jones is about the meanest woman I ever saw, and I hope Aunt Jane won’t do any more work for her.” It occurred to Robert to follow his uncle’s direction and ask for credit at the store. But he knew very well that there would be little prospect of paying the debt, and, though a boy, he had strict notions on the subject of debt and could not bring his mind, even for his aunt’s sake, to buy what he could not pay for. When we are sad and discouraged relief often comes in some unexpected form and from an unexpected quarter. So it happened now to our young hero. Walking before him was an elderly gentleman who had on his head a Panama straw hat with a broad brim. He was a Boston merchant who was spending a part of the season at Cook’s Harbor. As his custom was, he was indulging in an evening walk after supper. There was a brisk east wind blowing, which suddenly increased in force, and, being no respecter of persons, whisked off Mr. Lawrence Tudor’s expensive Panama and whirled it away. Mr. Tudor looked after his hat in dismay. He was an elderly gentleman, of ample proportions, who was accustomed to walk at a slow, dignified pace and who would have found it physically uncomfortable to run, even if he could be brought to think it comported with his personal dignity. “Bless my soul, how annoying!” exclaimed the merchant.