IT was a mild day towards the end of February; and though so early in the year, spring flowers were in full bloom in the sheltered gardens which surrounded Afton Hall.

Bright yellow crocuses, like regiments of plucky little soldiers in amber uniform, with here and there clumps of mauve or white, bordered the flower-beds; whilst daffodils reared their stately golden heads in the gentle breeze, and snowdrops peeped modestly from amongst their gorgeously-apparelled neighbours.

The patch of ground in front of the side of the house that faced the west was particularly productive, being sheltered from the east wind; and as old John Bawdon, the gardener, carefully turned over the brown earth with his spade on this promising spring morning, he made a mental picture of the garden as he hoped to see it in the summer.

"'Tis beautiful soil," he muttered; "just the right sort for them young carnation plants. They'll make a fine show by-and-by!"

"John!" cried a young, imperious voice. "John! what are you talking about, all to yourself?"

The gardener turned his brown, weather-beaten countenance towards the speaker, a boy of about seven years old, whose handsome face was ruddy and glowing with perfect health.

"I was saying how fine the carnations will look in the summer, please God."

"Why do you say 'please God'?" asked the child, laughing. "You know, John, you always do say it, and it does sound so funny."

"Well, Master Theodore," was the reply, in rather injured tones, "I suppose it is as God pleases, anyway. I may dig, and plant, and prune, and tend the garden with all my strength, but it's all no good if God doesn't help. That's my experience, sir, and I've lived nigh upon seventy years, and more than fifty of those years I've been working in these here gardens. You don't find many of my sort now-a-days," he added with conscious pride. "More than half a century I've served your family, Master Theodore, as I've told you many times. I mind when your grandfather, who's dead and gone, was a lad; we were boys together. I mind when your father was born, and I mind the night you came into the world. Yes, I recollect some changes."

The old man struck his spade into the ground, and leaning on the handle of it, looked very tenderly at the boy. The child was clad in a loose, sailor's suit, and he stood in a negligent, care-for-nothing attitude, his hands in his trousers pockets.

"I know you're awfully old, John,—" he was beginning, when the old man interrupted him.

"Not so old but that there's a deal of work left in me yet. I'm strong and hearty still. But living in one family so many years, naturally one sees changes—great changes. You know, Master Theodore, how this bit of ground was your mother's favourite spot; she used to call it her winter garden, because there were mostly flowers here in dead winter. See that yellow jessamine against the wall, and that clump o' anemones! They were here in your mother's time. And the blue violets! How your mother did love violets, to be sure! I made a beautiful wreath of them to put on her coffin, and it was buried with her. It seemed fitting like that she should be covered in flowers, she who was so bright and beautiful, when they threw the cruel earth in upon her."

The old man drew his sleeve hastily across his eyes, then caught up his spade, and set to work again with renewed vigour. Presently a smile crossed his face, and he continued:—

"I called the earth cruel, but it ain't—it's kind! Don't it give us the flowers? Don't it take the ugly little brown bulb, and keep it warm, and nurse it, till the beautiful blossom is ready to come? Why, Master Theodore, the earth won't be able to keep your mother on the resurrection day, no more than it can keep the flowers from blooming when the spring's here. No one knows better than a gardener what the resurrection means, as I told the vicar."

John Bawdon stopped abruptly, seeing the child was perplexed. There was a troubled look on the handsome little face; a rebellious gleam in the clear, grey eyes; and the old man watched him furtively for a few minutes.

"John," Theodore said presently, "do you know I am going to have a new mother?"

"I have heard talk of something of the kind," was the cautious reply.

"You know," the child went on, lowering his voice, as though the subject was one not to be discussed openly, "my father is married again, and to-morrow they are coming home. Jane says he has forgotten my mother, and she says he will care less than ever for me now."

"Jane is a meddling, tattling woman, and ought to know better than to think such things, much less say 'em!" cried John Bawdon angrily. "She don't know anything about it, Master Theodore; you mustn't take notice of what she says."

"This strange woman cannot be my mother, can she, John?"

"No, sir, she cannot, that's certain. But if she's a kind, good lady, she may make things all the happier for you. Your own dear mother's body lies in the churchyard waiting for the resurrection day, and her pure spirit is with her Lord. Oh, my mistress!"

A tear fell from the old man's eyes into the brown earth, and the boy sighed.

"I'm a fool," John Bawdon muttered to himself; "but I can't bear to think of a stranger in her place, though it was seven years ago she died."

"Don't you let anyone put you against your father's wife," he continued aloud. "I daresay she'll be a nice lady; and anyway, I don't suppose she'll make much difference to you, Master Theodore."

"No," the child promptly agreed; "but I shan't call her 'mother,'" and his lips took a firmer curve, and his eyes flashed.

John Bawdon made no reply, but every now and again he turned from his work to look at the slim little figure wandering in and out among the flower-beds. Theodore Barton, in spite of possessing every comfort and luxury that money could procure, was a sadly neglected child. His mother had died at his birth, and his father, filled with grief at the loss he had sustained, had always been apparently indifferent to his son. So far, seven years Theodore had lived at Afton Hall, cared for by his nurse, Jane, subject only to the occasional interference of two maiden aunts of his father, who lived at a pretty villa not far distant. Now Mr. Barton had married again; to-morrow he was to bring home his bride. It was to be a very quiet home-coming: no rejoicings in the village; no grand doings at the Hall.

"John! John!" cried Theodore presently, "look at this clump of anemones!"

"Aye, aye, sir; all in bloom, ain't they?"

"Yes. They are lovely. I shall have some for the nursery," and he proceeded to gather a great bunch. "How quickly they have come up after the snow!"

"The snow protects the flowers, Master Theodore."

"Does it? How strange!"

"People talk of snow being cold, but it ain't; it's warm—warm as a blanket. God sends it to protect the tender, delicate plants. The Lord's a rare good gardener, He is—on a grand scale."

"Only think, what a funny idea!" said Theodore, with a merry laugh.

"All the world's the Lord's garden. He tends and cares for the trees, and the grass, and everything. You mind the lilies o' the field, Master Theodore, how He said they were finer than King Solomon in all his glory. You look at them crocuses now. Ain't they glorious? Bright as gold, and as smooth as satin. There's colour for you!"

But the child was not listening. He had darted off to meet his nurse, who was coming to seek him. She was a tall, plain woman of forty, neatly dressed in black. Jane Mugford was devoted to her little master, having been with him ever since his birth; and before that time she had been maid to the late Mrs. Barton.

Old John Bawdon nodded to her in friendly fashion; and she returned his greeting in cordial tones.

"Good afternoon, John. How well the garden looks, to be sure. I suppose you're tidying up a bit against the home-coming to-morrow?"

"Aye, aye, Jane. That's it."

"What changes time brings, doesn't it? It seems not so long ago—"

The woman paused abruptly with a glance at the child, but apparently, not interested in the conversation, he was watching a worm that was crawling across the pathway.

"Have you told him?" asked John, nodding his head towards the boy.

"Told him what?"

"That the new mistress has a little son of her own?"

"Not I, indeed. His father hasn't thought it worth while to mention the subject to him, and why should I? They are coming home to-morrow, as you know, and intend bringing her child with them. He has been staying with his mother's friends. Oh! we shall have fine changes at Afton Hall! But I'll see that Master Theodore's nose isn't put out of joint! The precious lamb!"

"Now, Jane, don't you try to set Master Theodore against the new mistress, there's a good soul. It may all turn out for the best; maybe it's the Lord's doing."

"Set him against the new mistress!" cried Jane, indignantly. "As if I'd dream of doing such a thing! Well, John Bawdon, you must have a mean opinion of me, indeed!"

"No, I haven't, Jane. But I know how you love the little master, and how you loved his mother; and I think maybe it seems hard to see another in her place. Well, well, I can't say I haven't felt like that too. You're afraid Master Theodore will be worse off than ever now, I suppose?"

The woman nodded, and answered angrily with flashing eyes: "His father don't care for him as he ought, though he is his heir, and such a fine, handsome, little lad. And now, with this strange woman and her child here, he'll care less!"

"No, no! The children will be friends, you'll see; they're near of an age, I hear. It may be the best thing for Master Theodore, his father marrying again."

"Well, John, you always try to look on the bright side of everything; I'll say that much in your favour," Jane remarked, a pleasant smile chasing the gloom from her face.

"It's the Christian way to look at things, at any rate," the old man responded, gravely.

"So it is; you're right, so it is. Hope is a Christian virtue, they say. Come, Master Theodore, come, my dear, it's near dinner-time, and you must come in."

The child bounded to her side. She took him by the hand, and stood looking down into his upturned face, as she asked—"Master Theodore, how would you like to have a brother?"

"A brother!" echoed the child, in surprise.

"Yes. She—Mrs. Barton—your father's new wife, has a little boy about your age."

"Will he come here?" Theodore asked quickly.

"Yes, certainly he will."

"But this is not his home!"

"No, my dear, of course it's not. It's your home, Master Theodore, and no one shall interfere with you, I promise that. There," soothingly, "don't get cross. You're Jane's own dear, good boy, her little master, her—"

"Master Theodore," interposed John anxiously, "don't you think you would like a boy to play with? I know you would. Of course Mrs. Barton will bring her little son here; and I expect she'll want you to show him about the place, and be kind to him. He'll be lonesome at first, and a bit shy—"

"Boys are not shy," Theodore said decisively.

"Some are; this one is sure to be among strangers."

"Do you think he will be bigger than me?" asked the child, drawing his slender, graceful form to its full height.

"I don't know, sir."

"I wonder if he will want to fight," musingly.

"Fight!" cried Jane, in horrified accents. "I should think not, indeed! What can you mean, Master Theodore?"

"Tom Blake says boys always fight to see which is the master. I shall not touch the—the strange woman's little boy if he is smaller than me—that would be cowardly. But if he is about my size," with flashing eyes and clenched teeth, "I shall thrash him."

Having delivered this speech, Theodore drew his hand away from Jane's clasp, and ran off toward the house. His nurse followed hastily, whilst old John Bawdon gazed after them with troubled eyes.

[CHAPTER II.]

THEODORE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH HIS STEPMOTHER AND HER LITTLE SON.

THE following afternoon the inmates of Afton Hall were in a great state of excitement. The servants, headed by Mrs. Hussey, the housekeeper, were ranged in a line in the entrance hall, awaiting the arrival of the travellers.

Suddenly there was a slight commotion heard, and Jane darted downstairs, her face pale with consternation.

"Has any one seen Master Theodore?" she gasped, looking eagerly from one to another of the astonished faces. "I can't find him anywhere. Half an hour ago he was in the nursery, and now he's gone!"

The servants exchanged meaning looks. No one had seen the child. Jane rushed out, calling him loudly; but though she searched every nook of the grounds, and every corner of the stables and outhouses, she could discover no sign of him.

Meanwhile, in an old lumber-room at the very top of the house, Theodore lay carefully concealed under a heap of disused bedding. He felt warm and uncomfortable, for it was a decidedly mild day, to be so covered up.

By straining his ears, he could faintly hear distant sounds. He was very unhappy, very lonely, and his heart was filled with evil feelings against the strange woman, as he mentally dubbed his father's wife. He was sure she would treat him unkindly; he had heard many stories of cruel, unjust stepmothers; and he had made up his mind to hate this one and her child. Poor little boy! He had never known any love except old John Bawdon's, and Jane's idolising, ill-advised affection, which was calculated to spoil him. Jane was so fond of her little master, so jealous for him, that she had all unintentionally succeeded in sowing the seeds of hostility towards his stepmother in his impressionable heart. She resented the idea of another child in the house.

"Mrs. Barton's son shall not interfere with Master Theodore," she had told Mrs. Hussey the night before in Theodore's bearing; "I shall see to that. No doubt the master will make much of him, as it's her child; but Master Theodore is the heir, and the Hall is his rightful home, while that other will only be here on sufferance."

Theodore recalled the words as he lay listening, and though he did not thoroughly understand their meaning, he felt somehow injured and resentful. Suddenly he heard the sound of carriage wheels, then a tumult of voices, and presently a long silence, broken after what seemed an interminable time by approaching footsteps.

The child held his breath in suspense. The footsteps drew nearer, and then the door opened, and he heard the voices of Jane and Mrs. Hussey.

"He may be hiding here," Jane remarked, "but I don't think it's likely. Master Theodore, are you anywhere about?"

"Perhaps he's under this heap," Mrs. Hussey replied, and hastily turning over the bedding, she discovered Theodore.

"Oh, you naughty, naughty boy!" Jane cried, as, pouncing upon him, she dragged him to his feet. "Your father's come, and his wife, and the child. Master's that angry with you for not being there to greet him! I hardly dared tell him we couldn't find you! You must come down at once."

"What is the strange woman like?" Theodore demanded. "And how big is the little boy?"

"Come and see for yourself, Master Theodore," Mrs. Hussey said kindly. "They are having tea in the west parlour. You may as well get the meeting over at once."

Theodore suffered himself to be led downstairs unresistingly, but outside the door his heart failed him, and he drew back.

"Oh, I cannot! I cannot!" he gasped, shrinking against his nurse.

Jane looked alarmed, fearing a scene. She hastily stooped down and kissed him, then knocked at the door, and opening it, pushed him in.

"Master Theodore, sir," she announced, and quickly withdrew.

The west parlour was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house. To-day a bright fire burned in the grate, whilst the air was sweet with the scent of spring flowers, that had been gathered and arranged in large, old-fashioned china bowls on the table and mantlepiece. Old John Bawdon had plucked his choicest blooms in honour of his master and his wife.

Theodore saw his father standing at the window, a tall, rather severe-looking man. He turned at his son's entrance, and addressed him somewhat sharply: "Where have you been, Theodore?"

"In the lumber-room, father."

The child was one who never quibbled or prevaricated, being innately truthful.

"What were you doing there? I should not have thought there was much attraction in a lumber-room."

Theodore raised his eyes to his father's face, and hesitated, but only for a moment.

"I was hiding," he said slowly.

"I suppose you were shy," Mr. Barton remarked, his grave face relaxing into a smile, as he shook hands with his son, and then continued, "Now, I want to introduce you to my wife. Mary, this is Theodore. Theodore, here is a lady who is very anxious to know you; and if you are good—"

"Oh! I am sure he is good," interrupted a voice, somewhat hurriedly, and a figure that had been seated in an easy chair by the fire rose with a kind of nervous haste, and came forward. Theodore looked at the stranger from head to foot, steadily. He saw a slight, graceful figure, a pair of soft brown eyes, and a gentle face crowned with dusky hair.

Mrs. Barton took the boy's limp hand, and smiled kindly at him. He thought she meant to kiss him, as, indeed, she had intended, but he drew hastily back, and met her friendly glance with one of proud defiance.

"I hope we shall be friends," she said. "You will try to like me, will you not, my dear?"

Theodore made no answer; he seemed perfectly tongue-tied. Mrs. Barton cast an imploring look at her husband not to interfere; and with a slightly impatient gesture he turned away, and looked out of the window.

Meanwhile Theodore's eyes had wandered to the sofa, whereon lay a boy of about his own age,—a boy with a mass of short golden curls, soft brown eyes, and a thin, pale face. The brown eyes were watching Theodore with great interest, and now they smiled at him, whilst a slender hand was extended in greeting. Theodore gazed in surprise, for the strange boy looked ill and delicate; so altogether different from what he had pictured him.

"Come and speak to my little son," Mrs. Barton said.

"His name is Jack, and he has been looking forward to see you for a long time."

"How do you do?" Jack asked politely. "Your name is Theodore, isn't it? Won't you please come nearer, and shake hands with me?"

Theodore obeyed mechanically, wondering why Jack should recline on the sofa. He looked with surprise at the small hand that clasped his own brown fingers.

"Why does he lie there?" he asked abruptly, addressing his stepmother for the first time. He was puzzled at the look of pain that crossed her face at his simple question; but Jack made answer readily and cheerfully:

"Didn't you know? Hasn't any one told you? Why, I'm lame!"

Theodore looked as he felt, inexpressibly shocked.

"It's my back," Jack went on to explain. "When I was a small boy I fell downstairs, and I've never been well since."

He spoke as though he was a grown-up person, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I shall never be strong like you as long as I live."

Theodore was greatly impressed. He fixed his serious grey eyes on Jack's face, and thought deeply.

"Does your back hurt?" he enquired at length.

"Dreadfully sometimes; it makes me cross and naughty, and then I'm so sorry afterwards. I tell the dear Lord Jesus about it, and oh! how I wish He was on earth now! I would get mother to go to Him, and ask Him to cure me. As it is, I'll have to wait till I die to get well."

"Well, one thing is certain," Theodore remarked with conviction in his tones, "you can't fight."

"Fight!" Jack exclaimed, in accents of surprise, whilst his mother looked somewhat startled, and Mr. Barton turned from the window and surveyed his son in amazement.

"Yes, fight," Theodore continued. "I meant to fight you, you know. Boys always fight; but I couldn't hit a fellow who's lame—it wouldn't be fair play."

"Theodore!" interposed his father angrily. "You talk like a perfect little savage!"

The child coloured hotly, and hung his head at the rebuke.

Mrs. Barton laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, as she said somewhat wistfully, "I hope you and Jack will be friends, Theodore. You are so strong, my dear, that I shall feel you are quite a protector for him."

Theodore looked up brightly and smiled. "Yes," he answered, "I'm very strong. I can run faster than much bigger boys, and I can climb trees, and ride Jigger—that's my pony, you know—bare-backed. If you like," with an air of condescension, "I will look after your little boy for you. The village boys are very rough."

"Jack will hardly come much in contact with the village boys, I should say," Mr. Barton interposed dryly.

"You see, Theodore," Jack explained, "I never go out except in my chair. I can't walk."

"Can't walk!" Theodore exclaimed in horrified accents. "Can't walk! oh, how dreadful!"

As Theodore spoke, Jack thought it was very dreadful too.

He turned his face aside, but not in time to hide the tears in his eyes.

"You had better send Theodore away," Mr. Barton said to his wife. "I am afraid he is upsetting Jack."

"I did not say anything to make him cry!" Theodore exclaimed indignantly, turning his fearless eyes on his father's face.

"No, no," Mrs. Barton said soothingly. "But Jack is tired with the journey, so I think I will put him to bed."

"Yes," said Jack, looking round, and smiling through his tears. "I am tired. Do come and see me when I am in bed, Theodore." And Theodore promised.

"Well, and what do you think of Mrs. Barton?" asked Jane, as Theodore joined her in the nursery.

"I don't know," the child answered gravely.

He seated himself on the window-sill, and looked out dreamily.

In the distance he could see the tower of the parish church, and his thoughts wandered to his dead mother, whose body lay buried in the peaceful churchyard yonder.

"Jane, what was my mother like—my own mother?" he asked presently.

"Why, my dear, you know. You've got her likeness in your bedroom."

"Yes, but you tell me. Had she brown eyes, Jane?"

"Law, no, sir! Her eyes were as blue as the heavens, and her hair was bright gold. You favour your father in looks, Master Theodore. Your blessed mother was as fair as a lily, and with a colour in her cheeks like a blush rose."

"I wish she had not died," the child said musingly.

"The Lord knows best, my dear."

"Does He? Did He send the strange woman, do you think, Jane?"

"Why—why, yes, I suppose so."

"And the little boy? Did you know he was lame? He cannot walk. Is it not sad? Why did God let him fall downstairs and hurt himself, Jane?"

"I don't know, sir. But God knows, you may depend."

"It seems hard on Jack—his name is Jack. I am to go and see him when he is in bed. He asked me."

There was a short silence, broken at length by Theodore.

"The house will seem different now they are come. And I think father looks different already,—somehow I think he looks gladder."

Jane made no reply. Presently Theodore went to the door and listened. He knew a room had been prepared, not far from his own, for his stepbrother, and he wondered if he was yet in bed. He ventured out into the passage, and crept cautiously along it. Before a half-closed door he paused, and peeped in. Jack was in bed, his mother standing by his side, whilst in a low, sweet voice she sang to him:

"At even, ere the sun was set,

The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;

Oh! in what diverse pains they met!

Oh! with what joy they went away!"

She sang the hymn through to the last verse; and when it was finished she looked around, and saw the little figure in the doorway, watching.

"Come and say good night to Jack," she said, smiling, and thus encouraged Theodore advanced to the bedside.

"I must not let you talk to-night, because Jack is over-tired, and I want him to go to sleep quickly."

Jack raised himself in bed, and lifted his wan little face for Theodore to kiss. Theodore complied somewhat awkwardly, and with a muttered "good night" turned away. He watched Mrs. Barton as she tenderly embraced her son; and listened to her whispered: "God bless you, my darling." Then she joined him outside the door.

"Are you coming, Mary?" Theodore heard his father's voice call.

"Yes, in one minute," his wife responded.

She took Theodore's little brown hand and pressed it kindly.

"Good night, my dear," she whispered; then she stooped and impulsively imprinted a kiss on his forehead: "God bless you, too, Theodore."

[CHAPTER III.]

THEODORE'S GREAT-AUNTS.

NOT many hundred yards from the entrance to the grounds of Afton Hall, lying slightly back from the high road, with a grass plot surrounded by flower-beds in front, was a snug little house called The Nest.

It was occupied by two maiden ladies named Barton, aunts to Mr. Barton, and therefore great-aunts to Theodore. Miss Selina, the elder sister, was a tall, gaunt woman, who prided herself on being outspoken. She was sixty-two years of age, but looked younger; whilst her sister, Miss Penelope, was ten years her junior.

If it had been Miss Selina's lot to have lived in some large, busy parish, her services would have been invaluable, for she dearly loved visiting the poor, attending meetings, and generally interesting herself in parochial matters. But Miss Selina was not much liked in her native place. She had a knack of rubbing people the wrong way, of discovering their weaknesses, of being quick to notice their shortcomings, and equally slow to see their good points. That the poor were an ungrateful set, she was always saying, thriftless and wasteful; it was quite useless rendering them assistance: and yet—strange inconsistency—no applicant for help was ever allowed to be sent unsatisfied away from The Nest.

Miss Penelope was not in the least like her sister. Once she had been pretty, and she never for one instant forgot the fact; but it had been the sort of beauty that rarely lasts beyond youth. Miss Penelope's roses had faded; her blue eyes looked washed-out; and there were decidedly ill-tempered lines around her small, button mouth, for the younger Miss Barton did not possess the beauty of a cheerful, happy spirit.

Little Theodore was not particularly fond of either of his aunts, but he decidedly had a preference for Miss Selina. Miss Penelope was his teacher. From half-past nine to twelve o'clock every morning Theodore was at The Nest, given up to the tender mercies of Miss Penelope, who made him spell out little stories about the bad boy who devoured too much cake, and nearly died in consequence, and the good boy who shared his cake with his schoolfellows, and was filled with complacency at his own unselfishness.

Miss Penelope always impressed her pupil with the idea of how kind it was on her part to give so much time to him, utterly regardless of the fact that she was amply remunerated by the child's father.

On the morning after the return of Mr. and Mrs. Barton, Theodore was late in arriving at The Nest. He entered the sitting room with glowing cheeks, and sung his books noisily upon the table. Miss Selina was seated sewing by the window, whilst her sister stood bolt upright by the mantelpiece, her face puckered into its most ill-tempered frown.

"Well, Theodore," the younger lady cried tartly, "you noisy boy? How long do you imagine I have been kept waiting? Look at the clock! It is past ten!"

"I am awfully sorry, Aunt Pen," Theodore responded deprecatingly; "I am really. But I forgot the time. I was busy talking to Jack, Mrs. Barton's little boy, you know. He's not half bad!"

Miss Selina dropped her sewing, and glanced curiously at the child's bright, animated countenance.

"And what do you think of your stepmother?" she queried. "Come, Theodore, I am curious to hear what she is like."

"She is very pretty, Aunt Selina, very pretty—much prettier than any of the ladies about here."

Miss Penelope gave a little disdainful sniff, and glanced at her own reflection in the pier-glass.

"I don't think I can quite explain how she looks," the child continued doubtfully, "but she's like Jack; only her hair is quite dark, and his is yellow like gold. Oh, Aunt Selina, is it not sad? Jack cannot walk; he won't ever be able to walk. I mean to be kind to him, poor fellow!"

"The newcomers have evidently got you on their side already, Theodore," Miss Penelope remarked disagreeably; "and you were so certain you would hate your new mother."

"She is not my mother!" the boy cried, his cheeks flushing hotly, his handsome face clouding with anger. "But I never said I should hate her. How could I tell what she would be like? I meant to fight Jack; but I'm not a coward, and now I've seen him I couldn't hit him."

"No, no," Miss Selina interposed hastily, with a warning look at her sister. "Of course we knew there was a child, but we had not heard he was a cripple."

"He will never be better in this world," Theodore declared solemnly. "He will have to wait till he dies to get well."

"Dear me! that's very sad."

"He's about my age, Aunt Selina, and he's very clever. You can't think what a lot he knows about all sorts of things. He says his mother teaches him."

"And how is your father, my dear?"

"Oh, he's very well, thank you! I don't think I ever saw him so bright. He gave me five shillings this morning to spend as I like; and oh! I forgot to tell you, he sent his love to you both."

"I'm sure it's very kind of him. You must remember us to him," said Miss Selina, as she rose preparatory to leaving the room. "We shall call shortly. Well, Theodore, you know I am nothing if not outspoken, and I always speak my mind. My advice to you is, to keep in your stepmother's good graces if you can."

Lessons commenced, and Theodore struggled through his multiplication tables and worked his sums, interrupted occasionally by questions from Miss Penelope relative to the newcomers at the Hall.

"I suppose she dresses well?" she queried, pausing in the midst of correcting a sum that Theodore had been laboriously adding up.

"Who?" the boy asked, in surprise.

"Your stepmother."

"Oh! I don't know, Aunt Pen; I didn't notice."

"And she is dark, you say?"

"Her eyes are brown, and so is her hair."

"It will be a change for her—life at the Hall, I mean. I believe she was poor?" she said interrogatively.

"I don't know, Aunt Pen."

"Yes, so I am informed; a half-pay officer's widow. Well, well, some people have luck, to be sure. How does your father appear to take to the child—Jack, I think you said he was called?"

"Oh, I think he likes him very well and Jack seems to be awfully fond of father."

"Indeed! Do not let your nose be put out of joint, Theodore. Not that it can make any real difference to you, of course: you are the heir, any way; no one can alter that."

Theodore regarded his aunt gravely in puzzled silence. Her eyes fell beneath his steady gaze, and she hastily bade him continue his work. He was not sorry when the clock at last struck twelve, and Miss Penelope dismissed him, with a caution to be in good time on the morrow.

On his way home he met Tom Blake, the blacksmith's son, a tall, over-grown boy of twelve.

"Why, how is it you are not at school?" Theodore inquired, pausing to exchange a few words with Tom, on whom he looked with deep admiration, as a being much older and wiser than himself, and therefore to be regarded with due reverence.

Tom explained that he had taken a holiday to go birds'-nesting, but that in spite of the mildness of the spring, the birds, as it turned out, had known better than to build so early.

"I guess the old man will wollop me," Tom grinned, alluding to his father; "but I don't care, not I."

Theodore looked at the daring youth with admiring eyes, considering him very brave; then he poured into Tom's ears all he knew about Jack.

Tom listened open-mouthed with astonishment, his eyes growing rounder and rounder.

"Well!" he exclaimed at length, "well, I never! He might as well have been a girl!"

"Oh, no!" cried Theodore indignantly; "he's not a bit girlish—not a bit! If he could run about, I believe he would be as brave as you."

Tom laughed derisively, showing two rows of strong white teeth.

"That's good, that is! Ha! ha!" he laughed. "A cripple, and as brave as me! Ha! ha!"

He went off, still convulsed with merriment; whilst Theodore pursued his way, feeling annoyed and angry, he scarcely knew why. He found old John Bawdon pottering about the garden, as usual, and to him he spoke of Jack, and confided to him what Tom had said.

"Don't you take notice of anything that boy says, Master Theodore," the old man advised. "And as to being brave, there's many a plucky chap as has never fought with his fists. Bodily strength isn't everything; and I shouldn't wonder if Tom Blake, for all his boasting, isn't a bit of a coward at heart. I 'aven't seen your stepbrother yet, so I don't know what he's like, but his mother's been out and 'ad a few words with me. Heard a lot of me from the master, she said. Well, maybe that's very likely, me 'aving served the family so long. She 'as a kind voice, and a kind face. I've a notion we'll learn to bless the day she came here. I'll own I dreaded her coming; I'm old, Master Theodore, and I don't like new faces; but when I saw hers, I don't know what made me say it, but I said, speaking the words that came first to my tongue, natural-like, 'God bless you, ma'am, you'll make the old place bright again!'"

"What did she say?" Theodore asked, curiously.

"Said she'd do her best; and she will, I know. See how cheerful the master looks; not like the same man. I heard him whistling just now like a boy, and it did me more good to hear him than if any one 'ad given me a five pound note."

Theodore laughed, and went into the house, where he ascertained that Mr. and Mrs. Barton had gone out together.

He bounded upstairs into the nursery in search of Jane, and there found her with Jack, who was lying on an invalid's chair near the window.

"Oh, Theodore, how long you have been!" Jack cried, his beautiful dark eyes lighting up with a look of eager welcome. "Not that I have been dull," he added hastily, with a courteous, deprecating glance at his companion, "for Jane has been reading to me, and we have had a nice talk—haven't we, Jane?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've been telling her how I hurt my back. She used to know a little boy who was lame, and after a time he got quite well. But I can't, you know. Lots of doctors have been to see me, and one was a very great doctor indeed, from a hospital in London, where there are lots and lots of children. He came and punched me about a good deal; he didn't mean to hurt, you know; he had to do it. He was sorry; and I told him when I grew up I meant to be a great doctor, too; and he smiled, and looked sorrier and sorrier, because you see he thought I should not live very long. I should like to be a doctor, shouldn't you, Theodore?—a doctor like St. Luke."

"Was St. Luke a doctor?" Theodore asked, with interest in his tones.

"Yes. Don't you remember, Paul called him the 'beloved physician'?"

"I did not know," Theodore answered humbly.

"Mother told me." Then changing the conversation, "Does your governess give you difficult lessons to learn, Theo?"

"No, not very. She's my aunt, you know—Aunt Penelope."

"What's she like?"

"Jane says she's like a washed-out doll," Theodore answered, with a laugh at Jane's discomfited face.

"Oh, Master Theo, you shouldn't repeat what I say like that!" she cried in shocked tones.

"Well, Jane, you know quite well you did say so. She's not a bit like Aunt Selina, who is very tall, and thin, and dark. They're coming to call soon, and then you'll see them, most likely."

"Oh, but I shan't be downstairs, Theodore."

"Then they'll come up here to see you, never fear: They asked me lots of questions about you; and they'll be sure to want to see you out of curiosity," said Theodore candidly.

"I don't think I want to see them much," Jack remarked dubiously.

"Well, I don't think you'll like them much!" Theodore answered with a laugh.

"You shouldn't say that, Master Theodore," Jane interposed. "Miss Selina's a kind, generous lady; every one in the parish knows that. And Miss Penelope, for all she's a trifle cross-grained sometimes, is very clever, I'm told."

"I saw Tom Blake, Jane, as I came home. He's been stopping away from school this morning to go birds'-nesting."

"How often am I to tell you, sir, not to have anything to say to that naughty boy? He's one of the worst boys in the village."

"I'm sure he's not," was the quick, indignant retort. "He's a very nice boy; and he knows about everything!"

"Yes; everything he ought not to know, I expect. His father does some poaching, I'm told, and no doubt he is teaching his son to follow in his footsteps. If I hear of your going with him, Master Theodore, I shall tell Mr. Barton."

"No, you won't!" Theodore retorted, with a wilful look.

"Oh! won't I, indeed! You'll see."

Thereupon followed a long wrangle, to which little Jack listened in astonishment. At length, after Theodore had worked himself into a violent fit of passion, Jane gave in, as she usually did on such occasions, and there was peace once more.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED.

THREE months had passed since the arrival of the new mistress and her little son at Afton Hall. The housekeeper had left, and had not been replaced. Mrs. Barton preferring to hold the reins of government in her own hands.

In the nursery Jane still reigned supreme, but there was now a younger woman to assist her; for, much to the surprise of all the household, Jane had volunteered to take Jack under her charge, and the plan answered admirably.

The invalid child, with his sunny disposition, and winning ways, had won her heart at once; though she still looked with jealous, suspicious eyes on his mother.

"You see, Master Theodore," she explained one day, "there's no need to keep the poor little fellow at a distance, seeing it's not likely he will be here long anyway. He's that fond of you, too! Why, when you're out his eyes are always looking towards the door at the slightest sound, thinking you're coming. 'Jane,' he said to me the other day, 'isn't it grand to be strong like Theo!' Poor little chap! It's hard times for him!"

By this time the stepbrothers were fast friends. As the weather became warmer, Jack went out every day, and was drawn about the garden in his wheeled invalid's chair. He made acquaintance with John Bawdon, and the old man would often chat to the child. On one of these occasions, when the two were left alone together for a few minutes, Jack asked the age of his companion, and, on being told, remarked thoughtfully:

"How strange to be so old! Do you know I am only seven, and I shall not live long; perhaps I shall die before you, John."

"Maybe, sir; God knows. But I'm an old chap, that's certain, and it can't be long before I shall see the King in His beauty."

"'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty, they shall behold the land that is very far off,'" quoted the child, the soft, musical tones of his voice going straight to his companion's heart.

"Aye, aye, sir, that's it. It used to be my mother's favourite verse, and I've always minded it."

"Your mother? I suppose she's dead?" Jack said dubiously.

"She died so many years agone that I've lost count o' the time, Master Jack. She lies in the churchyard yonder."

"Theodore's mother is buried there, too—he told me. I think it is very pleasant to be alive—that is, sometimes. Of course it's not nice if you're in pain."

The old man shook his head, and glanced pityingly at the thin, little face, and the beautiful brown eyes, that looked far too big and bright.

The Hermit's Cave

"John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"

THE HERMIT'S CAVE

or

Theodore and Jack.

By

ELEANORA H. STOOKE,

Author of "Polly's Father," "A Little Town Mouse,"

"Rose Cottage," etc.

Illustrated by Richard Tod.

LONDON:

GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;

AND EDINBURGH.

PRINTED AND BOUND BY

GALL AND INGLIS,

NEWINGTON PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING WORKS,

EDINBURGH.

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations.

THE HERMIT'S CAVE.