So the train was set in motion that was to lead to important changes in the life of our young hero. These it shall be our task gradually to unfold, and set on record.
Four days passed quietly. The villagers had ceased to talk of the fire, as another exciting occurrence had succeeded. Deacon Watson had been thrown out of his carriage and broken his leg, and the details of this accident were still fresh in the mouths of all.
Harry pursued the even tenor of his way in his new position, trying to make himself as useful as possible, and succeeding to the satisfaction of his employer. Always prompt, always reliable, Mr. Porter felt that in spite of his youth he fully filled the place of Alfred Harper, whose temporary loss he now regarded with equanimity.
Harry was weighing some sugar for a customer one afternoon when John Gaylord, who had just got through sorting the mail, said to him, “Here’s a letter for your mother, mailed at New York.”
“Let me see it,” said Harry, who felt some curiosity as to who might have written to his mother, for her correspondence was very limited.
He took the letter in his hand, and looked at the direction. It was in a dashing business-hand, quite unknown to him, and revealed nothing.
“I will take it home when I go to supper,” he said.
“Has your mother got friends in New York?” asked Gaylord.
“Not that I know of. I don’t recognize the handwriting.”