"No, you are too young for that. I have a friend," Mr. Morton was about to say; but after a pause he said, "acquaintance, who is to start at once on a trip to the West, and I shall place you under his charge."
"Who is it, sir?"
"A young man named Cromwell."
"How soon are we to start?"
"Probably in a day or two. You can look over your wardrobe, and see if you need any new clothes, and can get them before you leave New York."
"Yes, sir."
Robert left his guardian's presence in better spirits than he had entered. The prospect of a journey was very agreeable, for he had all a boy's love of new scenes, and it added to his pleasure, though he hardly admitted it to himself, that his guardian was not able to accompany him. He hardly knew why it was, but, although he had been told that Mr. Morton was his father's intimate friend, and had no reason to doubt the truth of this statement, he found it impossible to like him. Indeed, there was a half feeling of repugnance which he was dimly conscious of, and had tried to overcome, but without success. This feeling was not so strange as it appeared to him. It was the natural repugnance of a frank and innocent boy to the double dealing and false nature of a selfish man of the world.
Shortly after Robert left the presence of his guardian, James Cromwell was once more ushered into it.
He was no longer the threadbare clerk, but had provided himself with a new suit of clothes, which looked, indeed, better than his former array; but no clothing, however costly, could change the appearance of his mean and insignificant features, and give him the air of a gentleman.