Bar’s previous experiences had led him into all sorts of places, good and bad, but never before had he seen the interior of a home like that, so full of all the appliances which modern invention and the refinements of human art have provided for wealth and culture. It was a sort of new world to him, and he found its unaccustomed atmosphere more than a little oppressive at first. Even Mrs. Manning, with her gentle face, her beautiful gray hair and her kindly, easy, perfectly well-bred manners, seemed to him so like a being from another sphere, that her presence made him uneasy. She understood him better than he imagined, however, and although she had plenty of questions in her mind, she considerately postponed them for a more convenient season. “It’s very wonderful,” thought Bar. “To think of that pocketbook business bringing about all this! But I wonder who Val is?” It was some little time before his curiosity was gratified, and then Mrs. Manning left him alone in the library, for a few minutes, to wonder at the multitude of elegant books, the folios of maps and engravings, and the rarely beautiful pictures. When she returned she was accompanied by a young gentleman of about Bar’s age, though scarcely so strongly built, whom she introduced as: “My son Valentine, Mr. Vernon. I shall have to put you in his care for the rest of the day. I hope, and so does Dr. Manning, that you will be very good friends.” Valentine Manning was not only lighter built than Barnaby Vernon, he was a good deal lighter in the color of his hair, and the complexion of his face. His eyes were gray instead of the brownish-black of Bar’s, and he was in every respect a good deal more of a “boy,” at least to all outward appearances. He had never had the severe experiences which had so steadied and sobered his new acquaintance. There was little danger that Bar would long feel as much shyness in his presence as in that of his mother, though he was a little awkward at first. “Mother says you’re to visit with me,” said the doctor’s son, after they found themselves alone, “and that then you’re going out to Ogleport to school.” “Yes,” said Bar, reservedly. “Ever been at the Academy before?” asked his new friend. “I never heard of you. What’s your first name?” “Barnaby. Bar Vernon.” “Bar? That’s a good handle. Mine’s Val. You can’t expect a fellow to be saying mister all the time. Did you say you’d been to Ogleport?” “No,” said Bar, with an effort. “I was never at school in all my life.” “Whew!” whistled Val. “What an ignoramus you must be! Did you ever study algebra?” “Never.” “Nor geometry?” “I saw the word in a newspaper, once,” said Bar, “but I don’t know what it means.” “Then won’t you have a high old time with Dr. Dryer, that’s all,” exclaimed Val. “Can’t you read?” “Oh, yes,” said Bar, eager to come up in something; “I can read and write, and all that. Let me show you.”