elsewhere. Many, in welcoming the new-comer, had reminded him that "competition was the life of trade," but he was beginning to think, sadly enough, that it was also the death of trade, in some cases at least. The rent, the butcher, the baker, and candlestick-maker, had taken the few dollars saved "to get a good start." Mrs. Rowland had darned and crisscrossed Teddy's red stockings into ridges and lumps; she had turned and "fixed" her few dresses until she felt that her worried little brain needed turning and darning, too. But their money was gone, and the thriving trade had not begun.
Mr. Rowland tried to be hopeful, but his set lips grew into a grim hardness; and he talked less and less of his prospects as the future became more uncertain.
Teddy found no fault. He admired his well-mended stockings, and pitied those who lacked the picturesque variety of contrasted patches. Soon after the sun was well above the hills, Teddy's bread and milk made its daily visit to his bowl, and Teddy never thought of asking awkward questions in the case of either mystery.
One morning the discouraged store-keeper went to the bank to draw out his last small balance.
"Going to close your account?" asked Mr. Prentice, the president, who always was particular to speak to his customers.
"For a time only, I hope!" replied Mr. Rowland bravely, counting the few small bits of paper, with thoughts far away from any consideration of arithmetic.
"You must not withdraw your patronage," said the smiling president, as he turned and walked back into his cozy office.
Mr. Rowland was unusually silent during the evening, and even forgot to tell Teddy his regular story before putting him to bed. The little boy noticed his father's depression, and kept very quiet. When his mother began to look meaningly at the clock, Teddy came and said good-night, and went to bed without a word of objection.
