The new order somewhat cheered the poor artist. Once, in his early days, he was ambitious, and hoped for a reputation; but long since his ambitions had faded, and he was content and glad to work for a bare livelihood. Even now, he would not have succeeded but for the small help his son was able to give him. Three dollars a week in many an unfortunate household in the metropolis plays an important part in the finances of a poor family. But a new trial was in store for the Kent family. The next day, just before the store closed, Loammi visited it. He wanted to ask a favor of his father, and as he walked through the store he looked about him with the air of a prince of the blood royal. It happened that as he passed along he managed to drop his handkerchief. Instead of picking it up himself, he signaled to Harold Kent to do it. "Pick up my handkerchief, boy!" he said, in a lofty tone. "I can't leave my place behind the counter." "Pick it up, I say!" said Loammi, stamping his foot. "That is not what I am hired to do," retorted Harold, indignant at the other's tone. "What is your name?" "Harold Kent." "I won't forget it," said Loammi, significantly. When, on Saturday night, Harold was paid his weekly wages he was told that he need not report for duty on Monday morning. "Why is this?" asked Harold, in dismay. "Loammi has complained of you," he was told. It was too late to appeal to the superintendent, and Harold left the store, grief-stricken and discouraged. CHAPTER XXXVI. A TIMELY HELPER. Walking along Eighth Avenue, Scott Walton saw a boy coming out of Ezra Little's store with sad face and eyes red as with weeping. The boy was poorly dressed, and Scott's experience of poverty had been so recent that he felt quick sympathy. "Are you in trouble? Can I assist you?" he asked, kindly. Harold turned to see who was addressing him. "I have just lost my place," he said, briefly. "Were you working for Mr. Little?" "Yes." "How did you lose your place? Tell me, if you don't mind." "I offended Mr. Little's son, Loammi. He got me discharged." "I am not surprised to hear it. Loammi got me discharged some months ago." "You!" exclaimed Harold, in surprise, for he noticed that Scott was handsomely dressed. "Yes." "But you are not a poor boy. You do not mind it." "I was a poor boy then. How much salary did you receive?" "Three dollars a week." "I think I can promise you five dollars a week with another firm." "Can you?" asked Harold, overjoyed. "But how can you? You are only a boy." Scott smiled. "I have some influence with the firm of Tower, Douglas & Co. I think they will take you on at my request. But where do you live, and what is your name?" "I live at 940 Bleecker Street, and my name is Harold Kent." "You are not related to Robert Kent?" said Scott, in excitement. "He is my father." "He is an Englishman, is he not?" "Yes; do you know him?" "Not yet, but I mean to. If you are going home, take me with you."