of exploring the rather stately mansion, he started on a tour of it. Through the darkened hall he went until he came to what he thought would be the parlor. He opened the door, though it creaked on rusty hinges.

The room was so dark he could see nothing, and, having heard his father say that there were some choice oil paintings at The Firs, he opened a window to get light enough to view them. He had a hard task, as it seemed the sash and shutters had not been moved since they were built, but finally a stream of light entered the gloomy apartment, with the horse-hair furniture arranged stiffly against the wall.

Dick caught sight of a large painting and was going closer to examine it when he heard a shriek in the open doorway.

"Mercy sakes, Richard! Whatever have you done?" he heard his aunt call.

"Why, I just opened a window to let some light in, so I could see the pictures," he answered.

"Light? In this room? Why, Richard Hamilton! This room hasn't been opened in years! We never think of letting light in the parlor. The carpet might fade. Oh, Richard, I am so sorry! If I thought you would have opened a window I would have locked the door. Shut it and come out at once! Mercy sakes!"

Much abashed, Dick closed the shutters and window and walked out. His aunt ran and got a broom, with which she brushed the carpet where he had stepped, though how she could see any dust in that gloom was more than the boy could understand.

"Never, never go in there again," cautioned his aunt. "We never open that room except—for funerals."

"I guess that's all it's good for," thought Dick.

He sat around, very miserable, the remainder of the afternoon, and had little appetite for supper, which was rather a scant meal; some preserves, bread and weak tea making up the repast.

"I think I'll take a stroll to the village," remarked the youth, as he arose from the table.

"Where?" asked his aunt, as if she had not heard aright.

"To the village. I'd like to see what's going on."

"There's nothing going on," replied his uncle. "The village is five miles from here. Besides, we go to bed early, and I don't allow any one in my house, visitor or otherwise, to come in with a latch key. You'd better stay here, read some good book to improve your mind, and retire early. That's what I do, and I find it pays."

Dick groaned. He now knew the meaning of his father's queer smile.

"Then I'll walk around outside the house for a while to get some air," proposed Dick.

"I'd rather you wouldn't," came from Mr. Larabee, as he squirmed uneasily in his chair. "The gravel walks have just been raked smooth, and I hate to have 'em disturbed."

Dick did not answer, but sat in his chair silently, while his aunt cleared off the supper table. When the lamps were lighted, which was not done until it was quite dark, Mr. Larabee handed Dick a book. The boy hoped it might be some tale of adventures that would help pass away the hours, but on looking at the title he saw it was "Pilgrim's Progress."

"I guess I'll go to bed," he announced, and his aunt and uncle gave an audible sigh of relief.

The next morning Dick, without saying anything to Mr. or Mrs. Larabee, walked to the railroad station. There he sent a telegram to his father. It read:

"Dear Dad. This place is fierce. Can't I come home? Wire me quick."

He said he would wait at the station for an answer, and he was a little sorry when it came, as it meant he would have to go back to the dismal house. His father's reply was:

"Dear Dick. To fulfill the conditions you must remain a week. Do the best you can and let it be a lesson to you."

"Be a lesson to me?" mused Dick. "Oh, I see! He means I must make that investment so I won't have to come here and live."

On his return Dick entered the house at the rear door, pausing momentarily to wipe his feet. But his aunt was watching for him.

"Richard," she said severely. "They're not half clean. I can see dirt on them."

"Oh," he began, but he kept silent, and, instead of entering, turned into the orchard. There, at least, he would not be corrected. His uncle found him there a little later, as Dick was sitting idly under a tree.

"Haven't you anything to occupy yourself with?" asked Mr. Larabee severely.

"No," answered Dick. "There's no one to get up a baseball game with around here, as far as I can see."

"Boys shouldn't always be playing," commented Mr. Larabee. "You should labor to improve your mind. Why don't you read that book I gave you last night?"

"I don't care for it."

"That's the way with the rising generation. Frivolous! frivolous!"

"School has closed for the term," said Dick. "I'm done with studying, and that book looked as if it was to be studied."

"It was," replied his uncle. "It merits being well studied. But it's what I expected of you. It's the way that you have been brought up."

"I guess my father brought me up in the way he thought best," fired back Dick.

"Well, his way is very different from mine—very different," and Mr. Larabee shook his head as though to indicate that a great mistake had been made. "Then there's your mother's will," he went on. "The idea of leaving that big fortune to a boy like you. It's wicked! It's a terrible risk! A terrible risk! What a foolish woman she was! But then it's all you can expect of a woman!"

"Look here, Uncle Ezra!" exclaimed Dick, rising to his feet, his brown eyes sparkling in a dangerous way, and a red flush showing on his cheeks. "I don't want you to speak that way of my mother!"

"She was my sister, and I say she made a foolish will!" stormed the old man.

"She was my mother!" replied Dick hotly, "and I'll not have her spoken of in that way! She knew what she was doing! She was the best woman that ever lived and—and much better than you are with your ideas of what is good. You musn't speak so of her! I'll not stand it!"

"Look here, young man!" exclaimed Mr. Larabee. "I guess you forget who you're talking to."

"No, I don't!"

"I won't have such language used toward me. I say your mother made a foolish will, and I know what I'm talking about."

"If you say that again I'll—I'll—" and then Dick paused. After all this man was his mother's brother, and he knew how his parent would have gently reproved him had she been alive. The memory of her took all the hard feeling out of his heart.

"I'm sorry I spoke so hastily, Uncle Ezra," he said in a low voice. "But I can't bear to have my mother referred to in that way. I think she did what was right, and I know my father does also."

"Humph, little he knows about it," snorted Mr. Larabee. "Just you wait until you come under my care, young man, and I'll show you what's what! I'll teach you how to behave to your elders," and, in great indignation, the old man trudged off.

Dick started. He had, for the moment, forgotten that portion of his mother's will which, under certain conditions, would compel him to live with his uncle and aunt.

"Live with them?" thought the boy. "Go to a boarding school they might select? Not much! I must make some kind of a paying investment within a year, if only to escape their clutches!"

CHAPTER IV

DICK BECOMES CELEBRATED

Dick managed to live through the week at his uncle's place, but it was hard work. He was corrected from morning until night. Almost everything he did while in the house, if it was only to pick up a book in the hope of finding something to read, met with a reproof