“Very well, sir, I’ll speak to mother. We’ve got a nice room that we’ve kept for a spare chamber, where I’m sure you’d be comfortable.” “I don’t much care now what Lucindy says or does,” said the old man, cheerfully. “If Philip won’t have me for a great-uncle, I’ll have to adopt you in his place, and I guess I’ll make a good exchange.” “Thank you, sir. I shall try to treat you as a nephew ought. Good-evening.” “That’s a good boy,” said Uncle Obed to himself. “I wish he was my nephew. Somehow, that stuck-up Philip, with his high-and-mighty airs, doesn’t seem at all kin to me.” Harry went home in excellent spirits. It would be of advantage to them to have a boarder, as it would give them a steady, even if small, income. “I wonder what he’ll be able to pay?” he said to himself. “If he pays as much as I used to get—four dollars a week—it’ll make us all right, for I’m sure of earning as much as two dollars a week, even if I don’t get a place.” His mother brightened up, too, when Harry told her of the prospect that opened up of making up for his lost wages. It was a timely help, and both mother and son regarded it as such. CHAPTER IX — NOTICE TO QUIT “Strike while the iron’s hot!” This was the motto of Mrs. Ross, especially in a matter of this kind. She was firmly resolved to get rid of Uncle Obed as soon as she could. She had always claimed to be of high family, and to have been brought up in the same style in which she was now living, and here was a witness who could disprove all she had said. No one knew better than Uncle Obed that she had been very poor in her early days, for it was he who, out of his small means, had contributed to support her mother and herself. Any day he might refer to those years of poverty; and Mrs. Ross felt that she should expire of mortification if her servants should hear of them. Farewell, then, to her aristocratic claims, for she knew well enough that they would be ready enough to spread the report, which would soon reach the ears of all her acquaintances. By way of precaution she took an opportunity of presenting her version of the story to Nancy, who waited on the table. “Mr. Wilkins is rather a strange old man, Nancy,” she said, affably, as Nancy was clearing off the breakfast table the next morning. “Is he really your uncle, mum?” asked Nancy. Mrs. Ross wished she could deny it, but felt that she would be found out in falsehood. “Yes, Nancy, I confess that he is. There is a black sheep in every family, and poor Uncle Obed was the black sheep in ours.” “You don’t say so, mum! He seems harmless enough.”