Nothing responded but his destitution, like the echo of a groan; and through such mental straits he arrived, at last, at The Stag. He decided that he would do nothing radical until the following day. He could afford a night's rest, at least, and that might revive his numbed faculties. As he reached the office he glanced at the proprietor. Could he persuade that cynical-visaged individual to trust him until he received his first week's pay? Would he be credited if he related his prospects? As a measure in this assurance, would not the proprietor feel justified in calling upon the widow for indorsement of the statement of the young man? This would never do. He could not endure the humiliation of such a revelation. The poor fellow got little encouragement from the face of the proprietor. This was suspicious and hard. It had scarcely the perfunctory smile of the professional boniface. The prospect of having to address that forbidding ensemble was disheartening. Suddenly his reflections were interrupted. The proprietor waved a beckoning hand to him. Dennis hurried to the desk. "A letter for you," said the proprietor, as he placed in the young man's hand an envelope addressed in a handwriting which he recognized at once. "'Dennis Muldoon'; yes, that's mine," and hastening to an unoccupied seat in a remote portion of the office, Dennis hastily opened the envelope and withdrew a short letter, and--ye gods! was it possible?--a postal order for twenty-five dollars. Philadelphia. DEAR DENNIS: It's a hard row you have to hoe, I'm a-think-in', and it's a bad spot you have to hoe it in. I know New York of old, and it's a lonesome place for a poor lad. I send you the week's wages due you, and an extry five to come back with in case your dreams don't come true. I've got over my mad, my boy, and I'll be glad to see you. Run over annyhow; it's a dull place without you. The mother misses you bad. Come Saturday if you can; I've got a business proposition I want to make. Tell me how you're getting on, annyway. THE OLD MAN. "Oh, ho!" cried Dennis. His providence was wide awake now, had made its toilet, and was ready for business. For a long while Dennis sat with the letter in his hand, gazing, with unseeing eyes, upon its eccentric chirography. His exultation had not fully materialized. To grope in the valley of despair one moment and skip along the summit of beatitude the next was a little too much for immediate comprehension. Somewhat in the manner of the metaphysician, he was inclined to believe, since his misfortune was no longer a reality, that his prosperity might be equally immaterial, and in unaware corroboration he made a minute tear in the edge of the postal order to establish its tangibility.