ride on Prince, whom he had come to love. The spirited horse returned his young master's attachment, and it was hard to tell which enjoyed most the daily gallop, the horse or his rider. To deprive John of Prince was to do him a grievous wrong, since it was, of all his possessions, the one which he most enjoyed. It was the more unjustifiable, since, at the time Prince had been bought for John, Squire Oakley, in a spirit of impartial justice, had offered to buy a horse for Ben also; but Ben, who had long desired to own a gold watch and chain, intimated this desire to his mother, and offered to relinquish the promised horse if the watch and chain might be given him. Squire Oakley had no objection to the substitution, and accordingly the same day that Prince was placed in the stable, subject to John's control, a valuable gold watch and chain, costing precisely the same amount, was placed in Ben's hands. Ben was delighted with his new present, and put on many airs in consequence. Now, however, he coveted the horse as well as the watch, and his mother had told him he might have it. But it seemed evident that John would not give up the horse without a struggle. Ben, however, had enlisted his mother as his ally, and felt pretty confident of ultimate victory.
CHAPTER II.
JOHN RECEIVES SOME PROFESSIONAL ADVICE
John Oakley had triumphed in his encounter with Ben Brayton, and rode off like a victor. Nevertheless he could not help feeling a little doubtful and anxious about the future. There was no doubt that Ben would complain to his mother, and as it was by her express permission that he had taken the horse, John felt apprehensive that there would be trouble between himself and his stepmother. I have already said, that, though a manly boy, he was not quarrelsome. He preferred to live on good terms with all, not excepting Ben and his mother, although he had no reason to like either of them. But he did not mean to be imposed upon, or to have his just rights encroached upon, if he could help it.
What should he do if Ben persevered in his claim and his mother supported him in it? He could not decide. He felt that he must be guided by circumstances. He could not help remembering how four years before Mrs. Brayton (for that was her name then) answered his father's advertisement for a house-keeper; how, when he hesitated in his choice, she plead her poverty, and her urgent need of immediate employment; and how, influenced principally by this consideration, he took her in place of another to whom he had been more favorably inclined. How she should have obtained sufficient influence over his father's mind to induce him to make her his wife after the lapse of a year, John could not understand. He felt instinctively that she was artful and designing, but his own frank, open nature could hardly be expected to fathom hers. He remembered again, how, immediately after the marriage, Ben was sent for, and was at once advanced to a position in the household equal to his own. Ben was at first disposed to be polite, and even subservient to himself, but gradually, emboldened by his mother's encouragement, became more independent, and even at times defiant. It was not, however, until now that he had actually begun to encroach upon John's rights, and assume airs of superiority. He had been feeling his way, and waited until it would be safe to show out his real nature.
John had never liked Ben,—nor had anybody else except his mother felt any attachment for him,—but he had not failed to treat him with perfect politeness and courtesy. Though he had plenty of intimations from the servants and others that it was unjust to him that so much expense should be lavished upon Ben, he was of too generous a nature to feel disturbed by it, or to grudge him his share of his father's bounty.
"There's enough for both of us," he always said, to those who tried to stir up his jealousy.
"But suppose your father should divide his property between you? How would you like to see Ben Brayton sharing the estate?"
"If my father chooses to leave his property in that way, I shan't complain," said John. "Fortunately there is enough for us both, and half will be enough to provide for me."
But John had never anticipated such a contingency as Ben and his mother claiming the whole property, and, frank and unsuspicious as he was, he felt that his father would never have left him so entirely dependent upon his stepmother unless improper means had been used to influence his decision. There was a particular reason which he had for thinking thus. It was this: Three days before his father died, he was told by the servant, on entering the house, that the sick man wished to see him. Of course he went up instantly to the chamber where, pale and wasted, Squire Oakley lay stretched out on the bed.
He was stricken by a disease which affected his speech, and prevented him from articulating anything except in a whisper. He beckoned John to the bedside, and signed for him to place his ear close to his mouth. John did so. His father made a great effort to speak, but all that John could make out was, "My will."
"Your will, father?" he repeated.
The sick man nodded, and tried to speak further. John thought he could distinguish the word "drawer," but was not certain. He was about to inquire further, when his stepmother entered the room, and looked at him suspiciously.
"Why have you come here to disturb your sick father?" she asked, coldly.
"I did not come here to disturb him," said John. "I came because he wished to speak to me."
"Has he spoken to you?" she asked, hastily.
"He tried to, but did not succeed."
"You should not allow him to make the effort. It can only do him harm. The doctor says he must be kept very quiet. You had better leave the room. He is safest in my care."
John did leave the room, and though he saw his father afterwards, it was always in his stepmother's presence, and he had no farther opportunity of communicating with him.
He could not help thinking of this as he rode along, and wondering what it was that his father wished to say. He knew that it must be something of importance, from the evident anxiety which the dying man manifested to speak to him. But whatever it was must remain unknown. His father's lips were hushed in death, and with such a stepmother John felt himself worse than alone in the world. But he had a religious nature, and had been well trained in the Sunday school, and the thought came to him that whatever trials might be in store for him he had at least one Friend, higher than any earthly friend, to whom he might look for help and protection. Plunged in thought, he had suffered Prince to subside into a walk, when, all at once, he heard his name called.
"Hallo, John!"
Looking up, he saw Sam Selwyn, son of Lawyer Selwyn, and a classmate of his at the academy.
"Is that you, Sam?" he said, halting his horse.
"That is my impression," said Sam, "but I began to think it wasn't just now, when my best friend seemed to have forgotten me."
"I was thinking," said John, "and didn't notice."
"Where are you bound?"
"Nowhere in particular. I only came out for a ride."
"You're a lucky fellow, John."
"You forget, Sam, the loss I have just met with;" and John pointed to his black clothes.
"Excuse me, John, you know I sympathize with you in that. But I'm very fond of riding, and never get any chance. You have a horse of your own."
"Just at present."
"Just at present! You're not going to lose him, are you?"
"Sam, I am expecting a little difficulty, and I shall feel better if I advise with some friend about it. You are my best friend in school, and I don't know but in the world, and I've a great mind to tell you."
"I'll give you the best advice in my power, John, and won't
