Uncle Rutherford, the most generous, the most benevolent, of men, had, nevertheless, the most exasperating way of carrying out his kindnesses. He would suggest or hint at something delightful, and which just met the views or desires of his hearers, dwell upon it for a time, then, after leading one to the very height of expectation, would apparently put the matter entirely from his thoughts, and for days, weeks, or months, nothing further would be heard of it.

To urge its fulfilment, or to endeavor to discover what his intentions might be, was never productive of any good; on the contrary, his intimates believed that this still further deferred the wished-for result. Even aunt Emily, his much beloved and trusted wife, had learned to possess her soul in patience, when he was supposed to be revolving any thing of this nature in his mind.

The question of Jim’s future had never been alluded to by him since that day last September, when it had been discussed at our seaside-home; and now it was nearly Christmas, and Milly was on tenter-hooks to know if there was any thing favorable in store for her protege. She knew better, as I have said, than to hurry matters, or to ask any questions. That uncle Rutherford had not forgotten it, however, was evident from the way in which he watched, and apparently studied, the boy’s ways and character; Jim all the while quite unconscious of such scrutiny.

“Milly,” he said, on the evening of the day following that of the episode of the “Morning Bugle,” “Milly, I see that boy Jim has a temper which needs some curbing.”

Now, “a temper” was uncle Rutherford’s bête noir, albeit his own was not of the most placid type, and that it was liable to be roused to what he called “just indignation,” on that which to others appeared small provocation. The flash was always momentary, but it was severe while it lasted; and it had ever been a cross and a stumbling-block to him, spite of the polite name by which he called its manifestations. It was probably the recollection of the trouble it had brought to him, and of the struggles which even now it cost him, an elderly man, which made him so intolerant of its existence in others, especially the young. It is not necessary for the reader to quote the oft-repeated proverb about dwellers in glass houses, for uncle Rutherford was perfectly conscious of the exceeding fragility of his own panes; and his only wish was to warn and help those who were cursed with a fiery, impetuous spirit like his own.

That Jim was a victim to this, no one could deny, and Milly did not attempt to dispute it now; she merely assented meekly, and acknowledged that Thomas and Bill were constantly rescuing him from street-fights, and other escapades of that nature. And there were times when, in some of his rages with his fellow-servants, the raised tones of his furious voice had penetrated to the upper regions, and called for interference from the higher powers; but these occasions were becoming more and more rare. His devotion and loyalty to Milly and the other members of the family who had befriended him were not infrequently the occasion of these outbursts; for, at the smallest real or fancied injury or slight to any one among us, he was up in arms, and his tongue and his fists were only too ready to avenge us. He was very impatient, too, of any allusion by others to his own origin, or to the state of degradation from which Milly had rescued him and Bill, although he would discuss it more or less freely with her, and with his boon companion and chum.

“What has Jim been doing now, uncle?” asked Milly; her hopes for the advancement of the boy through uncle Rutherford’s means falling, as she wondered if he were noticing only to find out the flaws in a by no means faultless character.

“Just that; been in a street-fight, or what would have proved a street-fight, if I had not come upon the scene just in time to call him to his senses, and to order him into the house instanter,” said our uncle; “and, from what I could learn, he attacked a boy much larger than himself, on very small provocation, merely, that the boy disputed his claim to the name of Livingstone, by which it appears he chooses to dub himself.”

“He does not know his own name,” said Milly, apologetically.

“That is no reason that he should call himself by yours,” rejoined uncle Rutherford.

“It is something of the old feeling of feudal times, or that which used to make our Southern slaves adopt the surnames of their masters, I think,” said Edward. “Jim thinks that ’them as belongs to Livingstones ought to be called Livingstone.’”

“Captain Yorke proposed to him to take his,” said I, “but Jim declined, on the ground that Yorke was not so nice a name as Livingstone for the ‘President of these States.’ He has it in his heart, too, to confer honor upon our family name by the reflected glories of the position to which he aspires.”

“The boy’s spirit of gratitude and appreciation, at least, are worthy of all credit,” said aunt Emily.

“And, whatever he may owe to Milly and the family, he has already repaid the debt with interest,” said mother; her thoughts, doubtless, recurring to Jim’s heroic rescue of the youngling of her flock her baby Daisy from a frightful death; to say nothing of his sturdy fidelity to the welfare of our household and property under circumstances of great temptation and fear during the last summer.

“I had thought,” said uncle Rutherford, slowly, and Milly’s face lighted up; was it coming at last? “I had thought, if you judged well of it,” turning to mother, “of having him go to the public grammar-school for this year, and there to test his capabilities, not only in the way of learning, but even more in his power and desire to control this temper of his. If he gives satisfaction, and proves himself worthy of it, let him continue at school until he is fitted for it, when I will give him a scholarship which I own in the School of Mines. At present it is filled, but will fall vacant about the time that Jim will be ready to take it. There is another boy on whom I have my eye, who has the same bent for a calling that Jim has, and whom I wish to befriend and help; but he, too, has faults which I hope to see him correct, faults in some respects more serious than Jim’s, and the prize will lie between these two. Whoever proves himself most worthy and capable, the most steady, reliable, and best master of himself, shall take the scholarship. But, if Jim goes regularly to school, he will, of course, have to resign, in a great measure, his duties as a household servant. Are you willing to have him do this? For I do not wish or intend to inconvenience you. What is your opinion of the whole matter?”

“Ask Milly,” said mother, “she is the arbitress of his fate.”

And uncle Rutherford looked to that young damsel.

“What say you, Milly?”

There was little need of words. Milly’s sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks spoke for her. This was so much beyond any thing she had hoped for on behalf of the boy, that at first it seemed to her almost too good to be true. And, yet, there were lions in the way. And, after a moment’s consideration, she answered, somewhat hesitatingly,

“I hardly know what to say, sir.”

We all looked in astonishment. Most of the family thought that Milly’s hopes and ideas for the future of her proteges were rather quixotic and unreasonable, aiming at taking them out of their proper sphere. But here her clear judgment and good sense saw some objections to uncle Rutherford’s plan.

“You are very kind, more than kind, uncle,” she continued. “Such an offer is, indeed, a ‘chance’ for Jim such as I had never dreamed of, and there could be no question between this, and his training as a household servant; but I fear for the effect of the emulation upon him. If he is to gain this prize by outstripping or defeating another, the spirit of victory for victory’s sake will take possession of him, and he will make every thing give way to it.”

“Then he will not prove himself worthy of the prize,” said uncle Rutherford, who had a fancy for inciting young people to efforts of this nature, and who was always holding out some prize to be striven for.

“I don’t know,” said Milly, a little wistfully; “he is so impulsive, so eager, so almost passionate, in the pursuit of any object on which he has set his mind, that I am afraid too much of the spirit of rivalry will enter into his efforts to win this.”

“And,” put in Norman, “he will be so cock-a-hoop if he is set to study for a scholarship, that there will be no bearing him, and ”

But Norman was brought to an abrupt silence, by a quick reprimand from father; while uncle Rutherford took no notice of the interruption, but continued to urge upon Milly the acceptance of his project. It undoubtedly presented so many advantages for Jim, that these finally outweighed her scruples, and she agreed thereto with earnest thanks.

“Who is the other fellow, uncle?” asked Norman the irrepressible, “any one whom we know?”

“Yorke’s eldest grandson,” said uncle Rutherford.

“That sneak!” ejaculated Norman.

“So that is your opinion of him,” said uncle, turning towards Norman. “Well, I have not myself much confidence in the boy. There is something about him which I do not like; he is not frank and outspoken. He is a bright lad, however, ambitious, and disposed to make the most of any opportunities which fall in his way; and, for old Yorke’s sake, I would like to help him. Yorke pinched and saved and denied himself, to give that boy’s father an education, and illy he was repaid by the graceless scoundrel, who dissipated his father’s hard-earned savings, and half broke his heart, and that of his poor mother. The captain is building on this boy’s future, now; and, if he does not show himself fit for a college course, he may, at least, when he has had sufficient schooling, be taught a trade, and share the burden of the family support. We shall see which will win the prize, Jim or Theodore.”

Douglas began to laugh in his quiet way, but Norman spoke out again.

“Won’t there be jolly rows, when those two come to be pitted against one another,” he said. “Either one will do his best to keep the other from winning it, even if he don’t care for it himself.”

There was too much reason to believe that Norman’s prophecy would prove true. From the time that Theodore Yorke had appeared at his grandfather’s, a pronounced state of antagonism had declared itself between the two boys; and this had continued up to the time of our leaving the Point. Jim, who was a great favorite with the old captain and his wife, seemed to look upon Theodore as an interloper, and trespasser upon his preserves; and the latter at once resented the familiar footing on which he found Jim established in his grandfather’s house, although he himself had never been there before, and had hitherto been a stranger to all of his father’s family.

It had required the exercise of the strictest authority to maintain any thing like a semblance of peace during the remainder of our stay at the seaside; and there were occasional outbreaks, which tended to any thing but comfort to Captain Yorke’s household. Our house and grounds were forbidden to Theodore Yorke, in consequence of this feud; but Jim’s duties called him, at times, to the home of the old sailor, whence he was accustomed to bring the daily supply of milk for the consumption of the family, and where he had been wont to linger as long as he dared when sent on this errand. More than once had he returned with a black eye, cut lip, or other adornment of a warlike nature; and several milk-pails had been degraded from things of usefulness, by reason of being used as weapons of offence and defence.

And, although he knew all this, here was uncle Rutherford actually setting up these two already belligerent lads as rivals in the race for learning and character, with such a prize in the future to the winner. His object would defeat itself. Was it to be supposed that tempers would be controlled, that any little tendency to take advantage of an enemy would be smothered, under these circumstances?

“Dear uncle,” said Milly, whose face had fallen when she heard who was to be the rival candidate, “Jim is my charge; and you will not think me ungracious, if I say that I cannot consent to let him enter the lists against Theodore Yorke. I know only too well that it would arouse all his bad passions. As I said before, rivalry in any case would not be best for him, but, against Theodore, it would be simply ruinous; and I would rather see him remain under Thomas’s tuition, learning to be a thorough and efficient servant, and to control his temper because right is right, than to have him take the first honors in any college in the world, if these are to be purchased by the fostering of an envy and jealousy which I am sure would be the result of your plan.”

“Saint Millicent is right, as usual, when her brands snatched from the burning are concerned,” said father, putting his arm over her shoulder. “I quite agree with her, Rutherford. We shall always see that both those boys, Jim and Bill, are well provided for; and neither of them shall lack for such an amount of education as may fit him to make his way in some respectable calling. To Jim we owe a debt which far outbalances the benefit he has received at our hands.” And papa’s eye turned, with lingering tenderness, to the far corner of the room, where Allie and Daisy, unconscious of the weighty matters which were being discussed among their elders, were absorbed in happy play with dolls and dog. “When he is old enough and steady enough, we will set him up in some line of business which he may choose eh, Milly? that is, if he shows any aptitude for a mercantile life; and he may work his way thence to the Chief Magistracy, if he find the path which he imagines lies open to him. As for Bill, he runs Wall Street, you know; and his voice, and talent for music, would make his way in the world. There is something that must be cultivated.”

“Do you mean, Millicent, that you are actually going to refuse my offer for Jim?” said uncle Rutherford, in a tone of deep displeasure; for he did not like to be circumvented when he had set his mind upon a thing, especially if it chanced to be one of his philanthropic schemes. And that same quick temper, which he had found his own bane, showed itself now, in the flush which mounted to his brow, and the sudden flash which shot from his eyes. “Then, my dear, all I have to say is ”

That was all he had to say; and Milly escaped something which would have hurt her feelings, and which uncle Rutherford himself would have regretted when another moment should have passed, for aunt Emily laid her hand upon his arm, half-whispering, as a noted imperial wife was once wont to do to her impetuous and fiery lord, “Nicholas, Nicholas!” and with a like, calming effect, for further words were arrested on his lips.

There was a little awkward silence for a moment; then, as if by a sudden inspiration, uncle Rutherford said pleasantly,

“How absurd we all are! What need for either boy to know that he is a rival to the other? Put the reward before each one, and tell him that the winning of it depends upon himself, and then we shall see.”

So, then, was it settled, to the satisfaction of all; uncle Rutherford, it is true, a little disappointed that the stimulus of emulation was not to enter into the contest; and the discussion was here brought to a close by the appearance of Bill with a box of flowers “for Miss Amy.”

But there was a factor in the case, upon which we had not counted.

In the privacy of their room over the stable, Bill and Jim held converse that night; and this was the substance of their communing, divested of unnecessary adornments of speech, with which those young gentlemen were wont to garnish their conversation when removed from the restraints of polite society.

“There’s a big thing up for you, Jim,” said Bill. “You’ll hear of it yourself soon, I guess, from Miss Milly or Mr. Rutherford; but I got first word of it.”

“What is it?” asked Jim.

“You’re goin’ to school; you and Theodore Yorke,” said Bill.

“I ain’t goin’ to no school with Theodore Yorke,” interrupted Jim. “There ain’t no school would hold me an’ him.”

“Yes, you are, if you know what’s good for yourself,” said Bill; “and there’s some kind of a big prize for whichever comes out best man.”

“Then I’ll go, if Miss Milly lets me; an’ beat him, too, if it was just for the sake of beatin’,” said Jim, verifying the prophecy of his young mistress. “But how do you know so much, an’ what do you mean, Bill?”

“I didn’t hear all they was sayin’, and I s’pose I wasn’t meant to hear none of it,” answered Bill. “It was all the fam’ly folks, ’cept the children, was talkin’. Mr. Brady sent me to open the front-door when the bell rang, and it was some flowers for Miss Amy; and, when I went to the door with ’em, they was all talkin’ so busy they didn’t hear me knock. I couldn’t make out just what it all was; but you’re to get schoolin’, you and Theodore, and whichever does the best is to get more schoolin’, and some prize at the end when the schoolin’s done; but Miss Milly, she didn’t want you nor him to know you was fightin’ for it, ’cause she didn’t think ’twould be good for you. She thought you’d be too set on it, maybe, just to spite Theodore. She knows him and you, you see.”

“Yes, she might ha’ knowed I wouldn’t let him get the best of me,” said Jim, viciously. “And you say I wasn’t to be let know I was set on to beat him.”

“No, them was Miss Milly’s orders; and I take it Mr. Rutherford didn’t like it too much,” answered Bill. “He wanted you to know, and be set on yer mettle. But Miss Milly, she’s boss of us, you know, and she got her own way. So, as I say, they ain’t goin’ to tell you nothin’ about Theodore.”

“Then, maybe you oughtn’t to ha’ told me,” said Jim, musingly. “I don’t believe you ought.”

“I don’t see the harm,” said Bill. “I wasn’t told not to tell; they didn’t know I heard.”

“All the same,” said Jim, “you oughtn’t to ha’ told, when Miss Milly didn’t want me to know. I am glad I do know, so as I can set out to beat Theodore; and, Bill, this is goin’ to give me a first-rate chance. You see if I don’t get to be President, now. An’, when I do, you’ll see what’ll be done to Theodore Yorke.”

“What?” asked Bill.

“I don’ know, I’ve got to think,” answered Jim; “but jus’ you wait till I get to be top man of these States. Won’t Theodore get it!”

“Miss Milly didn’t want you to know, ’cause she thought you’d be so set against him, and she thought you was bad enough that way a’ready,” said Bill.

“I feel kinder sneaky to know it when she didn’t want me to,” said Jim. “I guess, after all, I’m sorry you tole me, Bill; you hadn’t a right to, I guess. You come by it yourself kinder listenin’.”

Here the question of conscience and honor was broken in upon by the coachman, who slept in an adjoining room, and who bade the boys cease their chattering, as they disturbed him.

Uncle Rutherford had left to Milly the telling of his plans for Jim’s future; and the following morning she called the boy to her, and set them forth before him.

He was to go to school this winter, beginning as soon as the Christmas holidays were over. With many earnest warnings, she pressed upon him the necessity for self-control, as well as attention to his studies; telling him of the prize to be won if his course should prove satisfactory to Mr. Rutherford, but making no mention, of course, of the other candidate. He promised over and over again, that he would do his very best to prove a credit to her, and to make her “awful proud” of him in the future, and that she should have no cause for complaint, either with his temper, or his lack of diligence.

That he was enchanted with the opportunity thus offered to him, there could be no doubt, but he did not appear as much surprised as Milly imagined that he would be; and there was something in his manner, which, at the time, struck Milly as rather strange, a something repressed, as it were, but excited; and, all the while, there was a gleam of mischief in his eye. In the light of later developments, the cause of this was made plain; but now it was a mystery.

“And now, Jim,” continued his young mistress, when she had told him of all that lay within his grasp, and had added a gentle and persuasive modicum of moral suasion, “now that you are going out into the world to make a way, it may be a name, for yourself, you must choose what that name shall be. You remember,” soothingly, for this was a sore point with the boy, “you remember that we know you only as Jim.”

“It’s Livin’stone, Jim no, I mean James Rutherford Livin’stone,” said the boy, decidedly. “I’m goin’ to put in the Rutherford on account of Mr. Rutherford bein’ so good to me, Miss Milly; an’ won’t you an’ him be set up when you see Rutherford Livin’stone names onto a President of these States? I ain’t never goin’ to disgrace them names, that I ain’t.”

But Milly, mindful of the prejudices of her relatives, and of the objections which she foresaw from both sides of the family, found it needful to decline the compliment. In order to avoid hurting the boy’s pride, however, she went about it most diplomatically.

“Do you not think, Jim,” she said, “that it would be a good thing for you to call yourself by the name of Washington, the first and greatest of our Presidents?”

“Jim George Washington, Miss Milly?” answered the lad. “Well, that would sound nice; but, you see, I wanted to put the compliment on you, an’ to show what lots of gratitude I’ve got for you an’ your folks, Miss Milly.”

“The best compliment you could pay to me, and to my care for you, Jim, would be to show yourself in any way worthy of bearing the name of that great and good man,” said Milly, non-plussed how to carry her point, and still not to wound her charge. “And,” she continued, “that name might always prove a reminder to you of the truth and uprightness, the bravery and self-control, which distinguished him.”

“Miss Milly,” Jim broke forth, irrelevantly, it would seem, “you know Bill gets time for lots of readin’ an’ studyin’ down at the office. When Mr. Edward don’t have any thin’ for him to do, an’ he might be just loafin’ round, he’s doin’ his ’rithmetic, or his jography or spellin’, an’, if he wants a bit of help, Mr. Edward gives it to him, if he ain’t too busy just then; so Bill, he’s comin’ on with his learnin’ heaps faster than me; he’s gettin’ splendid at figgers, an’ he reads the paper, too, on’y Mr. Edward, he don’t like him to read the murders an’ the hangin’s, and them very interestin’ things; but Bill read the other day in the paper how a man said George Washington had a big temper, an’ could get as mad as mad as any thin’. But Bill, he said he’d heard Mr. Edward an’ some other gentleman talkin’ ’bout how folks was always tryin’ now to be upsettin’ of hist’ry; an’ Bill says he reckons that ‘bout George Washington was just another upsettin’, an’ him an’ me ain’t goin’ to believe it.”

“That’s right, Jim, keep your faith in Washington, and show that you do so by adopting his name,” said Milly.

Do not let it be thought that Milly slighted the Father of her country, by thus turning over to him the “compliment” she declined for herself and her family; for, in the multitude of namesakes who have helped to perpetuate that illustrious memory, poor Jim could reflect but an infinitesimal share of credit or discredit.

Jim pondered. The advantages of the world-renowned historic cognomen were, doubtless, great. But the “compliment” to his friends! could he defraud them of that?

Suddenly his face lighted; a brilliant idea had struck him. He could combine both.

“Miss Milly,” he said, “I’ll tell you. Now, I’ll be named James Rutherford Livin’stone Washin’ton, an’ stick to that till I get inter President polyticks; then I’ll put the Livin’stone last, James Rutherford Washin’ton Livin’stone, so folks’ll be sure I belong to you. Bill says folks can change their names, if they has a mind to, when they come twenty-one. Bill’s learned lots of law down to Wall Street, Miss Milly; he’s up in it, I can tell you.”

“Very well, that will be best,” said Milly, content to defer to the doubtful future the risk of having the family names appear in “President polyticks;” and so it was arranged, and her charge prepared to face the world as James Washington.