Philip and Mrs. Ross assumed so confident a tone that Colonel Ross, though at first inclined to discredit the charge, ended by believing it very probable. “This thing must be attended to,” he said. “What are you going to do about it, pa?” “I shall go before Justice Slocum, and get a warrant to search Widow Gilbert’s house. If I find anything, I shall have Harry arrested.” “Now, you’re in a scrape, Harry Gilbert,” said Philip to himself, exultantly. “I guess I’ll go along with you, pa,” he said, aloud, “and see if James Congreve has got back from the city.” CHAPTER XXXVI — HARRY IS CHARGED WITH THEFT Philip called at the hotel, and inquired, with considerable confidence, if “Mr. Congreve” was in. “He has not returned,” answered the landlord. “Then he won’t be back to-night,” said Philip, feeling considerably disappointed. “No; the last train is in.” “I wonder if he had any trouble in selling the bonds,” thought Philip; but this thought was one to which he didn’t think it prudent to give expression. He walked home slowly, while Colonel Ross kept on his way to the modest home of the Gilberts. We will precede him. The little family was gathered in the plain sitting-room. There were but three—Mrs. Gilbert, Harry and Uncle Obed. The old man—to begin with the oldest first—was sitting in a rocking chair, with his hands folded in his lap, and an expression of placid contentment on his face. He had reached the age when rest is agreeable, and was satisfied to sit through the evening, now watching Harry or his mother, and now occupied with thoughts of earlier days and distant scenes. He was thoroughly satisfied with the new home he had found, plain and humble though it was. Indeed, perhaps, for that very reason, it suited him better. Mrs. Gilbert was sewing. She had time enough to sew for some of her neighbors, and in that way earned a moderate sum for herself, though, as the family was now situated, she could have dispensed with it. Harry was reading a “Life of Benjamin Franklin,” which he had taken from the Sunday school library, and was evidently deeply interested in it. “What are you reading, Harry?” asked the old man, after a while. “Franklin’s life, Uncle Obed.” “You couldn’t read anything better. Old Ben is a good model for American boys. He was a great man.” “So he was, Uncle Obed; and he began poor, too.” “Sarten, sarten! Poor boys make the smartest men—that’s my observation.” “Then I’ve got one thing in my favor,” said Harry, smiling. “And you will succeed, too; I make no doubt of it. You’ve made a pretty good beginning already.” “Thank you, Uncle Obed, for your favorable opinion. I hope I shall deserve it.” “You’re worth half a dozen boys like Philip Ross. I reckon he’ll never amount to much.” “He doesn’t think so,” said Harry, smiling. “He thinks himself a very important character.” “Like enough! He looks like it. He doesn’t care to own me as a relation.” “It would be different if you were rich, Uncle Obed.”