"I don't know," said Joseph with a faint sigh, "but he loves me a great deal, I am sure of that!" "And where do you live?" questioned Farnham, rather as an excuse to keep the boy's hand in his, than from a desire for information. Joseph mentioned the street and number of his residence. The Mayor started. "Great Heavens, you cannot be his child?" "Who are you speaking of?" inquired Joseph. "Is--is--was your father's name Chester?" The tears rushed into Joseph's eyes. He drew his hand suddenly from the Mayor's clasp, and his voice was broken as he answered: "No, sir, it was my father's best friend that you killed!" Farnham fell back in his chair, his hand dropped heavily upon the table, he strove to disclaim the guilt so mournfully imputed to him, but his eyes fell, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. The strong man was dumb in the presence of that rebuking child. "I must go now," said Joseph, moving backward, "Mrs. Chester is lost, and we must find her." The Mayor did not hear him; he did not even know when the lad glided from his office; the last words had stunned him. After a little he looked up and saw that Joseph was gone. As if drawn by some powerful magnetic force, he arose, took his hat and followed the lad. Joseph was half across the park, but Farnham saw him at once, and followed with a sort of hushed feeling, as the wise men looked upon the star which led them to a Saviour. Meantime, Fred Farnham had heard of Chester's death and was preparing to go out, hoping to give some comfort to his family. To this end he had gone to his mother for money. The Chesters had refused aid of him before, but now he was resolved to deceive them into accepting it through his Uncle Peters. "What do you want money for, Fred--twenty dollars--if you are in for a champagne supper or something of that sort, I don't mind; but I must know where the money goes?" Mrs. Farnham was arranging a tiny French cap on the back of her head, as she made these motherly demonstrations, and its graceful lightness threw her into a charming state of liberality. "As a mother, you know, Fred, I am bound to see that the money which you ask rather liberally, I must say, is judiciously spent; now tell me where this is going?" "I intend to help a poor family, who have been wronged and are in trouble," said the generous boy. Mrs. Farnham closed her pearl portmonnaie with a fierce snap of the clasp. "Frederick," she said, with a degree of energy that made the delicate spray in her cap tremble, as if it shared her indignation, "I cannot encourage this extravagance, you are getting into low society, sir, and--oh! Fred, you will break your mother's heart if you persist in following after these low people." "Why, they live in the house with my Aunt Peters, mamma."