"If I were rich now, I would only be too glad to help those who were less fortunate than myself. I had one friend in England, an artist, like myself, John Walton, who would have done the same. I wish he were in Ezra Little's place."
"Did he have a son named Scott."
"I think it probable. He married a Scott."
"Then he may be in New York. I have heard that there was a boy named Scott Walton in the store a year since."
"That must be his son," said Mr. Kent, eagerly. "Is he in the store now?"
"No. I understand that he and Loammi could not get along together, and he was discharged. But I was told that his father was dead."
"Poor Walton! I am sorry to hear it. It seems to me that it is those who best deserve to live who are summoned first."
"Harold," said his mother, "will you go to the grocery at the corner and get a quarter of a pound of tea and half a pound of butter?"
"Yes, mother, but—shall I pay for them?"