The Young Musician | Page 2

the commercial metropolis never suspected for a single moment that he was a great man.
When Squire Pope had finished his letter, he took his hat, and with measured dignity, walked to the village post-office.
He met several of his neighbors there, and greeted them with affable condescension. He was polite to those of all rank, as that was essential to his retaining the town offices, which he would have been unwilling to resign.
From the post-office the squire, as he remembered the conversation which had taken place at the breakfast-table, went to make an official call on the boy whose fate he had so summarily decided.
Before the call, it may be well to say a word about Philip Gray, our hero, and the circumstances which had led to his present destitution.
His father had once been engaged in mercantile business, but his health failed, his business suffered, and he found it best-indeed, necessary--to settle up his affairs altogether and live in quiet retirement in Norton.
The expenses of living there were small, but his resources were small, also, and he lived just long enough to exhaust them.
It was this thought that gave him solicitude on his death-bed, for he left a boy of fifteen wholly unprovided for.
Let us go back a week and record what passed at the last interview between Philip and his father before the latter passed into the state of unconsciousness which preceded death.
"Are you in pain, father?" asked Philip, with earnest sympathy, as his father lay outstretched on the bed, his face overspread by the deathly pallor which was the harbinger of dissolution.
"Not of the body, Philip," said Mr. Gray. "That is spared me, but I own that my mind is ill at ease."
"Do you mind telling me why, father!"
"No; for it relates to you, my son, or, rather, to your future. When my affairs are settled, I fear there will be nothing left for your support. I shall leave you penniless."
"If that is all, father, don't let that trouble you."
"I am afraid, Philip, you don't realize what it is to be thrown upon the cold charities of the world."
"I shall work for my living," said Philip confidently.
"You will have to do that, I'm afraid, Philip."
"But I am not afraid to work, father. Didn't you tell me one day that many of our most successful men had to work their way up from early poverty!"
"Yes, that is true; but a boy cannot always get the chance to earn his living. Of one thing I am glad; you have a good education for a boy of your age. That is always a help."
"Thanks to you, father."
"Yes; though an invalid, I have, at all events, been able to give private attention to your education, and to do better for you than the village school would have done. I wish I had some relative to whom I might consign you, but you will be alone in the world."
"Have I no relatives?" asked Philip.
"Your mother was an only child, and I had but one brother."
"What became of him, father?"
"He got into trouble when he was a young man, and left the country. Where he went to I have no idea. Probably he went first to Europe, and I heard a rumor, at one time, that he had visited Australia. But that was twenty years ago. and as I have heard nothing of him since, I think it probable that he is dead. Even if he were living, and I knew where he was, I am not sure whether he would make a safe guardian for you."
"Have you any advice to give me, father?" asked Philip, after a pause. "Whatever your wishes may be, I will try to observe them."
"I do not doubt it, Philip. You have always been an obedient son, and have been considerate of my weakness. I will think it over, and try to give you some directions which may be of service to you. Perhaps I may be able to think of some business friend to whom I can commend you."
"You have talked enough, father," said Philip, noticing his father's increasing pallor and the evident exertion with which he spoke. "Rest now, and to-morrow we can talk again."
Mr. Gray was evidently in need of rest. He closed his eyes and apparently slept. But he never awoke to consciousness. The conversation above recorded was the last he was able to hold with his son. For two days he remained in a kind of stupor, and at the end of that time he died.
Philip's grief was not violent. He had so long anticipated his father's death that it gave him only a mild shock.
Friends and neighbors made the necessary arrangements for the funeral, and the last services were performed. Then, at length, Philip realized that he had lost his best earthly friend, and