when his agent informed him of what he had been doing. "First-rate," replied the broker. "The farm is worth every cent of three thousand dollars. Poor Gray! I can't help feeling sorry for him. But it's his luck. He valued his farm at three thousand five hundred dollars. A week ago he counted himself worth two thousand dollars, clean. Now he isn't worth a copper. Fifteen hundred dollars and three or four years' labour thrown away into the bargain. But it's his luck! So the world goes. He must try again. It will all go in his lifetime." "Gray? Is that the man's name?" inquired Mr. Bolton. His voice was changed. "Yes. I thought I had mentioned his name." "I didn't remark it, if you did. It's the farm adjoining Harvey's, on the north?" "Yes." "I have had it in my mind, all along, that it was the one on the south." "No." "When did you see Mr. Gray?" "He was here about half an hour ago." "How does he feel about the matter?" "He takes it hard, of course. Any man would. But it's his luck, and he must submit. It's no use crying over disappointments and losses, in this world." Mr. Bolton mused for a long time. "I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, at length. "Let every thing remain as it is until then." The man who had been for so many years sold, as it were, to selfishness, found himself checked at last by the thought of another. While just in the act of grasping a money advantage, the interest of another arose up, and made him pause. "If it had been any one else," said he to himself, as he walked slowly homeward, "all would have been plain sailing. But--but"-- The sentence was not finished.