Mr. Read, whose daughter, in her teens, Miss Deborah Read, was standing at the door. She gazed in wonder at the singular specimen of humanity passing before her; thought he was the most awkward and comical creature in the form of a man she had ever seen; and turned away with a laugh to tell her people in the house of the queer spectacle. She little thought that she was taking a bird's-eye view of her future husband, as the young man with the rolls under his arms turned out to be. But just then he cared more for bread than he did for her; some years thereafter the case was reversed, and he cared more for her than he did for bread.

He turned down Chestnut Street, and walked on until he came round to the wharf where he landed. Being thirsty, he went to the boat for water, where he found the woman and child who came down the river with them on the previous night, waiting to go further.

"Are you hungry?" he said to the little one, who looked wistfully at the bread.

"We are both very hungry," replied the mother quickly for herself and child.

"Well, I have satisfied my hunger with one loaf, and you may have the other two if you want them ;" and Benjamin passed the two rolls under his arms to her. "It appears that, in Philadelphia, three pennyworth of bread is three times as much as a man can eat. If other things can be had in the same proportion, the last dollar I have left will go a great way."

"I thank you a thousand times; you are very kind indeed," responded the woman, with a heart overflowing with gratitude, which was as good pay for the bread as Benjamin wanted. "May you never want for bread."

"No one would want for bread if they who have it would divide with those who have none, as they should."

In the last reply was incorporated a leading virtue of Benjamin's character-a trait that manifested itself, as we

shall see, all through his life. His generosity was equal to his wisdom. An American statesman said of him, in a eulogy delivered in Boston :

"No form of personal suffering or social evil escaped his attention, or appealed in vain for such relief or remedy as his prudence could suggest or his purse supply. From that day of his early youth, when, a wanderer from his home and friends in a strange place, he was seen sharing the rolls with a poor woman and child, to the last act of his public life, when he signed that well-known memorial to Congress, a spirit of earnest and practical benevolence runs like a golden thread along his whole career."

"I must be after finding a boarding place," said Benjamin to the owner of the boat, as he was about leaving. "I don't know where to go any more than the man in the moon. Are you acquainted here?"

"Scarcely at all; couldn't be of any service to you any way on that line," the owner answered. "Goin' to stop some time in Philadelphy?"

“I am going to live here if I can find work, as I expect to, and become a citizen of this town."

"Well, you'll make a good one, I know. May you never have reason to repent of your choice. Good-bye."

'Good-bye ;" and Benjamin walked up the street again. The people were on their way to meeting, so that he was reminded of divine worship, which he had partially forsaken in Boston. Being very tired, in consequence of a hard time on the boat and a wakeful night, he concluded to follow the people to church. They entered a large oldfashioned meeting-house, and he followed them, and took a seat near the door. His appearance attracted much attention, as his dress was not exactly that of a Quaker, and otherwise he was not quite of the Quaker type; and it was a Quaker church in which he was. But he wasted no thoughts upon his apparel, and did not stop to think or care whether he was arrayed in shoddy or fine linen.

Whether he did not know that he was in a Quaker congregation, or knowing that fact, was ignorant of the Quaker worship, does not appear; but he waited for something to be said. While waiting for this, he dropped into a sound sleep, and slept through the entire service, and would have slept on, and been fastened into the meeting-house, had not the sexton discovered him.

Hulloo, stranger! Meeting's over; going to shut up the house," shouted the sexton, shaking the sleeper thoroughly. "I was very tired," responded Benjamin, trying to get his eyes open. "I was on the boat last night and got no

sleep."

Where did you come from?”

"Boston; I came here for work.”

"Well, Philadelphy is a great place for work; what sort of work do you want?"

"I am a printer by trade, and hope to find work in a printing office."

"And I hope you will. Sorry to disturb your nap, but I have to lock up the house."

Benjamin thanked the sexton for waking him instead of locking him in, and went out into the street. He had not proceeded far before he met a Quaker, whose face indicated a man of amiable and generous heart, and Benjamin ventured to speak to him.

"I am a stranger in this town; arrived here this morning; can you tell me where I can get a night's lodging?"

Certainly I can; I suppose thee wants a respectable place." The gentleman spoke so kindly as to draw Benjamin to him at once.

"Yes, sir; but not an expensive one; my purse will not permit of any extra expense."

"Thee going to remain here some time?"

"Permanently, if I can get work; I am a printer by

trade."

"I wish thee success," added the Quaker. "But here

we are close by the 'Three Mariners'; but it is not exactly a reputable house, and thee wants a better one."

"Yes; I want one that has a good reputation if there is such a one," said Benjamin.

"Well, if thee will follow me, I will show thee a better one; it is not far away."

Benjamin followed him into Water Street, where he pointed out a public-house.

"There's the 'Crooked Billet,'" said the Quaker, " a tavern that is reputable, where thee can find board and lodgings for a day or a year."

"Thank you, sir, for your kindness," said Benjamin; "I shall not forget you. May everybody be as friendly to you as you have been to me."

At the same time, Benjamin thought it was a very queer name for a public-house. He did not like either part of it. and he said to himself, "Crooked Billet!'-crookedness and a cudgel to strike down the turbulent with are suggested." The name did not suggest anything pleasant to him. But he went in, and engaged lodging and board until Monday. "Where are you from?" asked the landlord, scanning him from head to foot.

"I am from Boston."

"Boston, hey? How long have you been on the way?" "Two weeks."

"Got friends in Philadelphia ?"

"Not one; all strangers to me."

"What did you come here for?"

"I came to secure work in a printing office. I am a printer by trade."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"And came all the way from Boston alone?"

Benjamin saw by this time that the landlord suspected him of being a runaway apprentice. This class of characters

was large at that day, for apprentices were often subjected to cruelty that made them runaways. So he closed the conversation as soon as possible and went to his room, where he slept until six o'clock, when he was called to supper. Not long after supper he went to bed and slept soundly until morning.

He arose early, took special pains to make himself as presentable as possible, paid his bill without waiting for breakfast, perhaps because he was reducing his cash so nearly to the last cent, and sallied forth in search of Mr. Bradford. He experienced no trouble in finding the printing office; but was very much surprised to find Mr. Bradford of New York there, father of the young printer Bradford of Philadelphia, to whom the father sent him.

"Glad to see you, my young friend. I got here first, after all, as you see,” remarked Mr. Bradford, the father, as he welcomed Benjamin with a hearty shake of the hand. "Had any ill luck on your way?"

"Not exactly bad luck, for I considered myself quite lucky to get here at all; but a slow, tedious trip, with delays and storms and disappointments most of the time," was Benjamin's answer, and he entered somewhat into details.

“Well, you are here, and I am glad to meet you; and, now, you want work." Then, turning to his son, Mr. Bradford continued: "My son, let me introduce this young man to you. He is a printer by trade, from Boston, in search of work: Benjamin Franklin. He called upon me in New York, and I advised him to come to you, knowing that your leading printer had died."

The young printer and the runaway were soon acquainted, young Bradford being as genial and friendly as the senior.

I regret that I have no work for you now. I have filled the place made vacant by the death of Bolder."

"There is another printer here, is there not?" asked the senior Bradford.

"Yes, Keimer; it is possible he may want a man. But