"My name is Scott Walton. Our fathers were friends, and I will be your father's friend."
"I have heard my father speak of your family. He will be delighted to see you—and is your father living?"
"No; father is dead. I judge that you are poor."
"Yes, very poor. My father is an artist, but he has very little to do. Lately he has taken to portrait painting, but he only gets ten dollars for a portrait. Now he is sick with rheumatism and cannot work."
"Cheer up, Harold! Better times are in store for you. I am prosperous, and my father commissioned me to seek you out and help you."
Scott followed Harold up into the poor apartment occupied by his father. As he entered the room, Mr. Kent looked in surprise at his companion. "Is this one of your fellow clerks, Harold?" he asked.
"No, father. I have been discharged from Mr. Little's store, and I have no fellow clerks."
Mr. Kent's countenance fell.
"Then we have no income," he said, sadly. "It only needed this blow. Why were you discharged?"