The three girls named looked up from the lesson they were learning, at the teacher first, and then at each other. What could they have done that they should be called out of the class like this? They were friends, and, like all girl friends, sometimes found a good deal to talk about; but they had not been talking this morning. Indeed, they had been very earnestly engaged with their lesson, for they were anxious to do as well as possible just now. And so they were the more puzzled as they left their seats, and, with hands behind, ranged themselves in front of the class and facing the teacher.

"You three are to go and sit on the top row by yourselves; one at either end, and one in the middle."

The girls did not speak; but oh! What a change came over their faces, as they turned and walked past the end of the row of desks up to the top row. As they paused before passing on, one contrived to whisper,—

"I do believe we are chosen after all."

"Hush! Here's governess."

And up the other side stepped a brisk business-like lady with some papers in her hand, which she placed before the girls.

"Now, each of you answer those questions; but mind, you are not to speak to each other, or anyone else. Now see if you have all you want before I go. Those are last year's examination papers," she added.

The girls were delighted with their task; for if they could only succeed, and pass the examination, they would win honour for their school and for themselves; and better still, twenty pounds a year, to pay for their education at a higher class school.

The thought of this was in the mind of each as she carefully read over the questions, and the directions how they were to be answered. Not that this was the crucial examination: that would be conducted at another school later in the year. But they were anxious to compete for a scholarship, and so they were to have a preliminary trial, going over all the previous year's papers as a preliminary, that they themselves, as well as the teacher, might judge whether they were competent to make a decent show, even if they failed to win the coveted prize.

For an hour the pens scratched, and then the governess came in to see how much they had written.

"Yes, you may go on," she said encouragingly to all three.

And the girls bent over the desk with renewed zest and energy, and applied themselves to the task before them. By the time that the stipulated two hours, allowed in the proper examination, was up, they had done very fairly, and their governess was well satisfied.

"You shall take another subject this afternoon," she said, as she scanned their papers. "Come in good time, so that you may get the full two hours."

The girls were as pleased as their governess, and held their heads an inch or two higher as they went out of school with the rest. They did not loiter in the playground that day, for each was eager to tell the news at home. For this examination had been talked of among the girls in the upper classes for some weeks past, and no one knew until this morning who was destined to be allowed to try for a scholarship.

At each of their homes the news was received with satisfaction; but no one was more pleased than Mrs. Winn, to hear that her daughter had been chosen as one of the candidates; for she knew how anxious Elsie was to continue her education, and that this was the only chance she was likely to have of doing so. Elsie was the eldest of five, and without this help they could not send her to school much longer, for she was nearly thirteen, and if she failed to pass this examination, she would have to leave school altogether in a few months' time.

There was nothing talked of during dinner but the examination. Indeed, the girl was so eager and so anxious, that it almost took her appetite away. And before her mother could get her to finish what was put upon her plate, she had to remind her that if she did not eat her dinner, she would certainly have the headache, and fail through that.

But, eager as she was, she did not run off until she had helped her mother to clear the table, and had washed the little ones ready for school. Then, having done this, she put on her own things, and was back at the school gates by the time the bell had begun to ring.

"The three scholarship girls go in first, and take their places where they sat this morning," said the teacher, when she saw the three standing together in a group.

"Scholarship girls!" How proud they felt of the distinction thus bestowed upon them! They turned and hurried into school as though they trod upon air. And by the time the rest came in, they were comfortably seated in their places.

"Now mind, if you do go in for this examination, girls, that you are in time to take your seats and collect your wits before the papers are given out—just as you have done this afternoon," said their governess, as she handed them the printed questions they were to answer, and the paper upon which the answers were to be written.

Again they sat and pondered the questions over, but this afternoon they did not seem so clear—at least to one of the girls—as the morning paper had been; and the teacher at the other end of the room saw that Jane Holmes spent more time biting the end of her penholder than using it in the usual way. But she took no notice; and the others wrote on until the first hour was up, and then the governess came to see how much was done.

Elsie Winn and Mary Nicholls had made very fair progress, she saw; but poor Jane was trembling with excitement, and had not written half a dozen lines.

"My dear, you must give it up," said her governess, kindly, "I was afraid whether you would be able to manage it."

"But—I—I—" and then the poor girl burst into tears.

And her governess took her hand and led her from the room, amid the dead silence of the rest, who wondered what could have happened to this scholarship girl.

The governess did not speak for a minute or two, but let the tears have their way, and then she said, "Come, come, Jane, no harm has been done. I was half afraid that you would not be able to go through an examination like this, and so I thought it would be best to try you first. Does your head ache?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't know how I feel," she whispered.

"But you did not clearly understand the questions on the paper, I suppose, as you had written so little."

"I can't tell how it was, for we had done some of that in class only yesterday; and yet I felt so stupid I could not remember a word about it."

"Never mind, my dear. No harm has been done; this is only a little trial beforehand, and is sufficient to shew that you are not strong enough to go through an examination. For, as you saw, this subject is not strange to you, and yet you have failed to grasp the meaning of the questions set before you, and which I feel sure at another time you would not find so difficult."

So Jane spent the rest of the afternoon in doing little services for her governess by way of consolation for her disappointment; for now there would be only two scholarship girls instead of three. Her friends, Elsie and Mary, were very sorry, and did what they could to console her, but it was not easy to do this, for they had been working and studying for some months with this in view, and now to fail so completely—as Jane knew she had done—was a very bitter disappointment to her, and would be to her mother also, she felt sure.

She was an only child, and her mother was a widow, and, of course, anxious that her daughter should distinguish herself.

"She will be vexed that I am such a dolt," said Jane bitterly.

"Now, Jane, I think you ought to be fair, even to yourself, and it is not fair to call yourself names that you don't deserve."

"What is that you are talking about?" suddenly asked a voice behind them; and turning, the girls saw Mrs. Holmes.

"I was speaking about Jane having to give up the examination," said Elsie. "I heard governess say, that it was not because Jane was not as clever as either of us, but because she was not so strong; and because she had sat closely at the work in the morning, she could not grasp the subject in the afternoon—not because she did not know as much about it as we did, but because she was not strong enough to bear the second strain in one day."

"Then why should she set you the second task on the same day?" said the widow, who was evidently inclined to think her daughter had been unfairly treated, if she had failed in this preliminary examination.

"You see, we should have to work all day in the real examination," interposed Mary, "and so governess wanted us to try how we could do the same work at school."

"Ah! I see. And so you have failed, Jane! Well, I am very sorry," said her mother.

And the tone in which she spoke brought the tears to Jane's eyes again; for only she knew how her mother had counted upon her being able to try for this scholarship, and being able to win it too.

She walked on by her mother's side, leaving her two friends to continue their talk by themselves.

"I am sorry for poor Jane," said Elsie; "her mother seems so disagreeable because she has failed—how sharp she spoke! I wonder whether she really does think governess did not treat us all alike. But there, Jane will tell her she had to give up before her paper was half finished, and so it will be all right, I daresay. But I'm sorry she has had to give up, for it would have been nice if we could have got three scholarships for our school. Governess would have been so pleased."

"But should you think there would be enough for each of us to get one? See what a lot of money it would cost," said Elsie.

"Well, as there will be only two of us now, they will perhaps be able to let us both have one, if we do very well; and governess said our morning papers were very good indeed."

"Oh yes! They will be able to spare two, I daresay, if they could not spare three; and so perhaps it is just as well poor Jane has dropped out now. It is better than having all the trouble of going through the examination, and then to fail because there were not scholarships enough for all."

The girls parted, and each went home to tell the news that Jane had been obliged to give up all hope of being a scholarship girl.

"Elsie dear, don't talk so loudly; your father is lying down with a bad headache."

"Father at home!" exclaimed Elsie. "He has come early."

"Yes, he did not feel very well this morning, and was obliged to give up at dinner time; and so he came home and went to bed."

Elsie talked more quietly after this, until she got out her school book to learn a lesson and write out an exercise.

She was almost too excited to sleep that night, for if she only succeeded in winning this scholarship, she would be able to go to the girls' grammar school, and then—and then—she did not quite know what she wished for next; for her whole horizon had been bounded by the hope of going to the grammar school, until her mother told her one day that it would be useless for her to look forward to this, for she would not be able to afford the expense, there being so many brothers and sisters to be considered.

Elsie had cried a little to herself that day; but the very next her governess had said, that she thought of letting some of the elder girls try for a scholarship. And ever since that day, she had secretly hoped that she might be one of those who were chosen. And now her hopes had been realised, and she might be able to go to the grammar school after all.

Her father came down to breakfast next morning, looking very pale and ill; but he smiled at Elsie's eagerness, as she told him that she was trying to do the scholarship papers, and hoped to be allowed to compete at the next examination, which took place in about a fortnight's time.

"All right, Elsie. Do the best you can, my girl, and leave the rest to God," he said.

"You haven't eaten much breakfast, father," said Elsie, as he rose from his seat and pushed his plate back.

"I'm not very hungry this morning," he said; and then he kissed her and the boys before he went away.

He was a clerk in London, and had to catch his train; and there was no time to say more about the scholarship or the breakfast. And Mrs. Winn did not notice that her husband had eaten so little, until she heard the door close, and knew he was gone; for she had been called away from the table.

"Has father gone?" she said, looking at the almost untasted egg.

"Yes; I told him he ought to eat his breakfast. Naughty boy!" she said to the baby, whom her mother had brought down in her arms.

But baby was not old enough to understand the scolding tone, and crowed at Elsie; and then she took him from her mother's arms, that she might cut some more bread and butter.

Baby did not mind being nursed by Elsie, but he would not let the younger sister, Alice, touch him; and so Elsie had to nurse him until the others were ready for school. Then she put him in her mother's arms, and ran off as fast as she could, in case the scholarship girls should be wanted to go into school first again.

She and Mary were in good time, and were sent to the top row of desks to resume their work on the scholarship papers. And before they went home that day, they had the satisfaction of hearing that they had done this preliminary work so well, that their governess had decided that Elsie and Mary Nicholls should each try for one of the much coveted scholarships. And they were to take home the necessary forms for their parents to fill up that evening, for they must be sent in, with their names, the next day.

Never was a girl more happy, or more important, than Elsie, when she went home with the long official-looking envelope containing the papers for her father to sign; and when he came in and saw it, he said the sight of it had done him so much good, that he thought he could eat some toast for tea, although he had not had much appetite all day.

"Let me make it," said Elsie, handing over the papers to her father's care. "I know just how father likes it done, mother," she added; and so Mrs. Winn cut a slice of bread, and Elsie toasted it very carefully, so that it should be delicately browned without getting burned.

Then she took the baby and amused him until it was time for him to be undressed; then she gave him up to her mother, and took the little ones upstairs and put them to bed.

"I don't know what I should do without Elsie," remarked her mother, when she was left alone with her husband.

"No, she is a useful little body about the house, as well as with the little ones, though she is so fond of her books. Ah, well! If I can get a bit stronger, so as to be able to do a bit of extra work at night, you must have a girl to help you, when Elsie gets this scholarship she has set her heart upon."

"Do you think she will get it?" asked his wife.

"I don't see why she shouldn't. She is a clever little maid," said her father, in a tone of satisfaction.

"Yes, and a loving obedient girl; and that is better still," said her mother. "But it won't do for you to attempt extra work, James, until you can get rid of this cold. You have had it more than a week now, and if it is not better in a day or two, you must go and see a doctor."

To her surprise, he said, "Yes, I will, if I don't get well soon." And Mrs. Winn resolved to make him keep his promise.

For the rest of that evening, father, mother, and Elsie sat and talked of what they would do and how they would manage if Elsie won the scholarship, and thus obtained the means of going to the girls' grammar school, little dreaming how different that future would be from what they planned it. Man proposes, God disposes, and cares for all His children as He guides them through life, with a love and wisdom so much greater than their own.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE EXAMINATION.

THE day of the formal examination for the girls' scholarships was looked forward to with some anxiety, and both girls spent every minute of the day, and often late into the night, in working up the subjects they were likely to be examined in; but at last their study came to an end, and they went to a school a little way out of the town, where a number of other girls were assembled from other schools. And Elsie, when she saw how many there were, did not feel so confident that she and Mary would both be successful, or that either of them would, in fact. Some of the other competitors looked far more confident than she did; and her heart sank a little when she saw the paper that was placed before her.

It did not seem that any one of the subjects she had specially learned would be of much use to her. And she knew it would be the same with Mary Nicholls, and then her governess would be so disappointed!

This thought of her governess made her read her paper of questions once more; and she also remembered something her father had said—that whatever was placed before her to do, her duty was to do it as well as she could, and think no more about what result was likely to follow.

So, with this thought in her mind, she read over, once more, the directions that were printed on the paper for the guidance of candidates; and then she saw that she was not expected to answer all the questions that were put down, but could choose and take those she knew most about; and, with this in her mind, she found that there was a history question that she had heard her father talk about to her brother; and so she wrote down all she could remember of that talk, and what she had learned some time before at school.

By the help of the two, she managed to answer this question fairly well; and then she considered another. This she did not know quite so well how to answer; but still, it was less difficult than it had seemed at first, and she did what she could of that, and then took the third.

She knew a little about this too, she found, and so she recalled all she could remember; and before she had quite finished, a bell was rung from a table at which a gentleman was sitting; and they were told to put down their pens, and put their papers together, as he was now about to collect them.

There was an hour's recess for dinner, and the girls trooped out—our two friends meeting at the door.

"Wasn't it a dreadful paper?" said Mary, as they took out the sandwiches they had brought with them.

"Yes, I was afraid I could not do a single question when I first looked at it," said Elsie.

"I made up my mind that I should not even try," said Mary, "for it was so different from what I had made up my mind it would be, that it fairly made my head ache."

"I felt like giving it up too," said Elsie.

"Well, if you had, I should have done the same, for I looked across to see what you were going to do; and when I saw you writing, I thought, 'Well, if Elsie knows anything about it, I ought; for we have been in the same class all the time;' and so I looked over it more carefully, and found I could do a little bit of one question, and doing that, helped me to remember a bit more; but I don't think I have done as much as they expect us to do."

"How much do they expect us to do?" asked Elsie.

"Four questions, if you can." The answer came from a tall girl, who was walking in the playground eating her dinner, as they were.

"I know all about it, you see; because I sat for this examination last year, and failed. The questions this time are harder than they were last year," she added.

"Yes, I think they are," said Mary, "and I am afraid my friend and I will not succeed in passing."

"I don't suppose you will, if it is the first time you have tried—both from one school, too," she added.

This remark, from one who might be supposed to know so much more about the matter than they did, was not very encouraging. And they looked at each other as if wondering which would have it, if there could be only one scholarship given to each school.

The afternoon questions proved to be a little less severe for our two girls, and both sat writing away until the bell rang for them to put down their pens, and put their papers together in the required order. After this they were free to go home; the gentleman telling them to be in their places the next morning by ten minutes to nine.

"It will be arithmetic, I expect," said the girl who had gone through this ordeal the previous year. "Are you good at arithmetic?" she asked.

"We can do fractions," said Mary, with a little toss of her head, they having been taught this branch quite recently.

"I should think you could, or it wouldn't be much good for you to come here. You see, if you do the other questions ever so well, and fail in arithmetic, you fail altogether."

"Come, Mary, we must make haste home," said Elsie. For she did not want to stay talking to the girl, who seemed to enjoy piling up the difficulties that were before them.

So the two friends bade the other a hasty good-bye, and hurried along the road until they could have a quiet talk to themselves.

"I wouldn't let her frighten me," said Elsie, when they were by themselves. "We have made up our minds to go through this examination, and we must do it the best way we can."

"But suppose we are sure to fail," said Mary, who was easily disheartened.

"Well, my father says that must not make any difference if we have made up our minds to do a thing.

"'Once begin,' he says, 'go through with it, and do as well as ever you can.'

"That is what I have made up my mind to do, and I don't mean to let anyone frighten me into giving up until it is all over."

Mary was not so sure that she should do this, but she agreed to go with Elsie to the examination until it was over.

After tea they went to see their governess, and tell her what they had done, and how difficult the questions had been.

She quite endorsed Elsie's resolve to go through with it now she had begun, and she said what she could to encourage the girls; but it was easy to see that she was not very hopeful of the result; or that even one of the scholarships would come to her school, dearly as she would like to gain such an honour for it.

The next day passed much as the first had done. Mary would have given up, but that she saw that Elsie was applying herself to solve the difficulties of the sums; and she felt she must do the same, for she and Elsie had learned their lessons together; and, therefore, if Elsie could do the sums, she ought to be able to do them too.

They were glad enough when four o'clock came that day, for they were both very tired from the close application; and Mary was more than ever disposed to give up the struggle, feeling it was quite hopeless to expect that two scholarships would be awarded to one school, and quite sure that Elsie had done some of the questions better than she had; and so she might as well spare herself the mental fatigue the following day.

"But you said you would come with me to the very last," pleaded Elsie; "and there is only one more day now, and then it will be over, and we can have a rest."

So Mary promised, for her friend's sake, to go for this one more day; but she was so tired, that she had given up all hope of winning a scholarship for herself now. Still she would go and keep her friend company, and do the best she could with the questions that were given to her. And so, with this despairing promise, Elsie had to be content.

To her great relief, however, those who had the management of this examination were more merciful this last day than they were on the first. Perhaps they knew the little tired brains would not be capable of doing much,—at any rate, the girls felt hopeful. Once more, when they saw the questions they had to answer, even Mary set to work with renewed energy; and, as the examination would be over at dinner time, they could look forward to having a pleasant afternoon at school—not in learning lessons, but in helping in little things about the class, and telling governess and teachers all about the examination.

They would also have the pleasure of walking in very late, when all the classes were assembled, and yet being greeted with a pleasant smile of welcome, instead of a stern reproof, which always awaited the girl who went in late, unless she had a good reason for it.

So altogether, this last day was not an unpleasant one; and they were able to tell each other, when they came out at twelve o'clock, that they had answered fully four questions out of six.

"I think we have done very well to-day," said Elsie, "and I am so glad you came, dear, for governess would have been vexed, I know, if we had given up in the middle of it, even though we may not have been successful."

"I don't think I shall pass, but I think you will, Elsie," said her friend; and it would be hard to say how many times this was repeated during the next fortnight.

It seemed to the two girls most interested, the longest fortnight they had ever passed.

Each day, when they went to school, they looked eagerly into their teacher's face, hoping to hear her say once more, "Elsie Winn and Mary Nicholls, you are wanted!" Just as she had called them out of the class once before.

But the days went on in the usual order, and nothing came to break in upon the usual course of lessons, which they had taken up again, exactly as though nothing had happened, and that they were not scholarship girls who had earned for themselves a little distinction at least.

But one morning, when they went to school, their governess met them with a beaming smile, and said, "I must congratulate both you scholarship girls; although I am sorry to say there is only one scholarship to spare, and of course you cannot both have it; but you are both so nearly equal, that if anything should happen to make Elsie wish to give up the scholarship, then Mary would have the right to take it."

"Am I first?" asked Elsie.

"You are six marks above Mary; and you two are the last on the list; but, as there are only five scholarships awarded this year, there cannot be very much difference between first and last. Between you two there is only the difference of six marks; so that I am very pleased with both of you, and only wish there was a scholarship for each of you, as you both so equally deserve it."

Thus the matter was settled, for the present at least; and everybody congratulated Elsie, though it must be confessed, she would have enjoyed her triumph a great deal more if Mary had not been disappointed. For, since the examination, she had confided to one or two of the girls that she had answered more questions than Elsie—they having compared notes in this matter—and Mary had come to the conclusion that she had done best after all.

Both the girls were impatient for twelve o'clock to come, that they might run home and tell the news. And when at last they were free, they rushed off, though Mary felt she had a little grievance that she was not the one chosen.

But her mother was a wise woman, and did not encourage her to think that she had been unfairly treated. "You know you said when you came home from the examination, that if it had not been for Elsie, you would not have waited until it was over before giving up; and so it is only fair that Elsie should have the scholarship."

Mrs. Winn was, of course, very pleased to hear that her little daughter had been successful; but she could not enter into her child's joy as she would have wished, for she was so anxious about her husband's health. He had never quite got over a cold he had caught in the early spring; and the doctor had told them that there very grave symptoms in his case that would need care.

Elsie did not know anything about this; for her mother thought the examination, and the anxiety attending it, were quite enough for her to bear. And so the poor girl was ill prepared for the news that awaited her when she reached home in the afternoon.

She had looked forward to telling her father of her success when he came back in the evening. But, when she reached home soon after four, she found the doctor's carriage waiting outside the door. And when she went in, she found a neighbour sitting with the younger children downstairs, trying to keep them quiet.

"I am glad you have come home, Elsie! For I can't manage to keep baby quiet," said this friend.

"Why, what is the matter?" asked Elsie, looking round the room to make sure that tiresome little Bobby, who was so fond of playing with the fire, was not missing. She felt relieved by the sight of Bobby's merry face, and said again, "What is the matter Mrs. Morris?"

"Your father has been brought home from London, and he is very ill indeed. You will keep the children quiet while I go upstairs and see if I can do anything to help your mother."

Elsie took the baby, and sat down with him. She did not feel very much alarmed about her father. He had been brought home ill before, and soon got well again; and she had enough to occupy her mind in thinking about the scholarship, and how soon she would be able to go to the grammar school.

As soon as baby would let her, she seated him on the floor, and began to get the tea ready, as her father would be glad of a cup of tea when the doctor had gone—he always enjoyed a cup of tea so much. She set the kitchen door open, that she might hear the doctor go away; and then she would make the tea, and carry a cup upstairs for her father, and tell him that she had won the scholarship, and that would cheer him, she felt sure.

The doctor was a long time upstairs, she thought; but at last she heard him coming down. And she heard her mother speak when they got to the foot of the stairs; and she could tell her mother had been crying, by the tone of her voice.

"Keep him as quiet as possible, Mrs. Winn," said the doctor; "but I do not think it will be more than a week."

And then the door closed, and her mother ran upstairs again, without coming into the kitchen to see her and the children. And Elsie grew vaguely uneasy as she thought of the doctor's words—"I do not think it will be more than a week."

Surely he must mean that her father would not be ill more than "a week." And yet, as Elsie repeated these words to herself half aloud, that same creeping fear seemed to come over her again. And she resolved to take a cup of tea upstairs for her father, and then she would be able to see whether he looked worse than he did when he had been taken ill before.

So she made the tea, and a tiny square of toast, and then poured out a cup and put it on a tray, and carried it upstairs and tapped at the bedroom door.

"I have brought this for daddy," she said in a whisper, when Mrs. Morris opened the door a little way.

The friend took the tea. "It will do nicely for your mother," she said, "but your father cannot take tea now."

She did not wait for Elsie to ask the question she wished, but shut the door again, and Elsie went downstairs. And, after waiting some time and finding her mother did not come, she gave the younger children their tea, and then undressed baby ready to go to bed.

Even Tom, her brother, who was only a year or two younger than herself, appeared touched by the strange silence that seemed to have settled down upon the house.

"Why don't you talk, Elsie?" he said at last in an impatient tone.

"Daddy must be kept quiet," she said, "and I don't want Bobby to shout and scream, as he does sometimes when he is at play."

More than an hour passed before Mrs. Winn came downstairs.

And then Tom began instantly, "What is the matter with daddy, mother?—Here is Elsie looking as miserable as ever she can be."

"No; I have only been keeping the children quiet!"

Her mother put an arm round both of them, and kissed them both in turn. "You must both help me to bear this," she whispered; "daddy is very ill, and—"

"Have you told him about Elsie's scholarship?" said Tom, who was very proud of his sister's success, though he might tease and quarrel with her sometimes.

"No, dear; he cannot listen to anything like that just now," said his mother.

Tom looked disappointed. "I believe if you were to tell him, mother, it would just rouse him up and put new life into him," said the boy.

But Mrs. Winn only shook her head; and Elsie noticed that her eyes were full of tears again, as she poured out a cup of tea for Mrs. Morris, which she carried upstairs with her; and told Elsie to put the children to bed as quietly as she could, when they began to get tired and sleepy.

Tom got out his lessons, and settled himself at the corner of the table, without grumbling that he could not have the whole of it. And the same dreary quiet settled down upon them that their mother had slightly broken.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE MASTER'S PROPOSAL.

A DAY or two after Elsie took home the news of her success, her brother Tom was called to the master's desk at school. "I suppose you are very pleased, Winn, that your sister has won a scholarship?" said the master, looking the boy over as he spoke.

"Yes, sir," answered Tom with a smile; but wondering what was coming.

He was not kept long in doubt. "We are all very proud that one of our girls has carried off this scholarship, and I mean the boys shall have a try next year,—we mustn't let the girls beat us. Do you understand, Winn? I want you to get one of these scholarships, as well as your sister. It would please your mother and father, I know; but of course you must work hard for it, as your sister did. As there is nothing like beginning in good time—for a thing of that sort—I am going to start a scholarship class after school hours next week, and I should like you and half a dozen other sixth standard boys to join it—if your parents would like this. Do you understand, Winn, my boy?—There will be nothing extra to pay, tell your father."

"Yes, sir; I'll tell mother when I go home. Father isn't well, and can't be bothered about things just now." And, with a bow, Tom went back to his class, leaving the master somewhat puzzled as to whether his proposal was welcome to the boy or not.

To his school-fellows, Tom said nothing of what he had been told by the master, for he could not make up his mind whether to be pleased or not. But when he got home, he sat down to his tea sullen and silent. And Elsie, of course, who was serving the children while her mother was upstairs, soon noticed it.

"What is the matter, Tom? Couldn't you get on with your lessons to-day?" asked his sister.

This reference to his lessons seemed to turn the scale. "What does it matter to you about my lessons?" he said, in a grumbling tone. "I wish I had never heard of your blessed lessons and scholarship; for now I shall never have a minute to myself. There'll be no time for play, no time for—"

"Why, Tom, what has happened,—what do you mean?" asked his sister in some concern.

"What did you want to go and get that scholarship for? It's just sent the whole school scholarship mad, and Potter's as bad as anybody now!"

"What do you mean?" asked Elsie, thinking her brother would burst into a merry laugh the next minute, and tell her of some further congratulations he had received on her success.

But Tom only glared as she looked smilingly at him, in anticipation of more pleasant words. "I tell you this; I won't do it for any of them!" he burst out at last. "And they may say what they like, and so may you."

"Won't do what?" inquired Elsie, feeling greatly puzzled.

"Why, I'm not going to swat up for a scholarship, like you did, to please anybody."

"O Tom, would you have a chance of getting one, do you think?" said Elsie earnestly. "Would Mr. Potter help you? There are scholarships for boys, you know, as well as for girls," she went on; "and mother would be so pleased if you got one too."

"Oh, I'll please mother and father too, never fear; but it won't be by getting a scholarship," grunted Tom. "I'm not going to worry my life out, morning, noon, and night, over that, when I ought to be at play. One in a family is enough, I reckon."

"Oh, Tom, I do wish you would try," said Elsie; "everybody says you are clever."

"That's all you know about it, Madam Elsie. Mr. Potter told me to-day that I was dropping behind with my arithmetic, and must join his class at once if I wanted to stand a chance."

"And you will, Tom, won't you?" pleaded his sister; "father and mother would be so pleased, you know, only they can't be bothered about it just now,—at least, father mustn't be worried. Mother might tell you what she thinks you ought to do."

Tom grunted out something about Elsie minding her own business, and leaving him to mind his, but she was all eagerness that her brother should share her pleasure and success; and so, when she took the children up to bed, and her mother came to kiss them, she told her what she and Tom had been talking about.

"Of course, he is pleased at the idea of joining this class," said Mrs. Winn.

"I daresay he would be pleased, if he knew you wished it, mother," whispered Elsie.

"I'll speak to him about it. If he could join this class, it might take him away from that John Bond he is so fond of, for I don't like him as a companion for Tom, since I feel sure he makes him worse than he would be, for getting into mischief."

So when Tom went to say good-night an hour later, his mother whispered, "You will join Mr. Potter's class, I hope, my boy, for your father would wish it, I am sure, if we could talk to him about it."

"Very well, mother," said Tom, not liking to make any objection just now, but half wishing he had not told Elsie a word about the matter.

On his way to school the next morning, he met his chosen friend John Bond a few yards from his own door. This lad was nearly a head taller than Tom, a big loutish fellow, who lorded it over his companions whenever he could, on the score of his size, and to him Tom confided his grievance of having to join the scholarship class.

"Potter never told me about this class," he said, as though the master had committed some offence in not consulting his biggest scholar on the matter. "I wonder why I am not asked as well as you and the other fellows," he went on. "I'm in the sixth too; why shouldn't he ask me?" he demanded.

Tom laughed. "You're likely to stop in the sixth, Jack, while you play such pranks, and make the teacher's life a misery to him. I don't believe Potter would cry his eyes out if he never saw your face in the school again," he said.

"What's the matter with my face?" asked the boy, and he turned to Tom with such a droll expression—rolling his eyes, and twisting his mouth about—that Tom exploded with laughter, as he had frequently done before, over his companion's queer grimaces.

"You'd be a nice help to a class that was swatting, wouldn't you?" said Tom, when he could speak.

"Why shouldn't I help if I like?" said John, with another grimace. Then growing more serious, he said, "They won't ask me to come to this precious class, because I live in Sadler Street."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Tom. "Potter's a beast over some things, but he's a just beast, and he wouldn't keep you out of anything if he thought you could get it, because you live in Sadler Street."

"Wouldn't he, though," grumbled Jack. "You'll see not a fellow that lives in our street will be asked."

Tom was silent for a minute or two, for it had suddenly occurred to him that most of the boys that came from Sadler Street were an untidy, unruly lot of lads, giving the teachers far more trouble than other boys. So that it might be true as Bond said, that no Sadler Street boys would be asked to join this class, though not from the cause he stated.

"You'll see we shall all be shut out, every mother's son of us that lives in Sadler Street," said Bond, again referring to his grievance.

"Well, you know, people don't like the street; it hasn't a good name in the school," said Tom, not liking to hurt his friend's feelings by telling him all the thoughts that had occurred to him upon the matter.

"Ah, and 'give a dog a bad name, you may as well hang him at once.' But now, about this precious class. Why do you want to join it, if you don't mean to go to a desk and drive a pen all day?" demanded Jack.

"I don't know. I haven't told my mother that I should like to be a gardener, and watch the flowers grow; but I mean to tell her all about it when father gets better, and then he, and mother too, will see that it's no good for me to go to this stupid old class."

"So you do mean to join it, then?" said the other, pretending to be very much surprised.

"Well, you see, I must for a little while, as mother is so worried about dad being ill, that it would only make things worse, if I kicked up a fuss and said I didn't want to go. You see, they've all gone so stark staring mad over my sister Elsie's scholarship, both at school and at home, that one would think all our lives depended upon it, so I must join this class for a bit, though I'm not going to swat much, I can tell you. Potter says that I am behind with my arithmetic, and must work hard at that. I'd like to catch myself at it! I wouldn't do home lessons, if I could help it," added Tom.

"I never did," laughed Bond; "my father said I could do as I liked about it, and I didn't like. Why shouldn't we spell taters with a 't' as well as a 'p,' I'd like to know? It did well enough for our grandfathers, why shouldn't it do for their children? I've heard my dad say that many a time, and I'm not going to worry myself about 'p's' and 't's' so long as I get the taters. They need not ask me to join any of their classes, for I wouldn't do it now, if they went down on their knees and begged me to go."

"They won't do that, Jack; they won't trouble you with William the Conqueror, or who rode through the streets of Coventry with her hair down her back."

"All right! They can leave me alone, but I'm not going to promise to leave all their precious class alone. We were chums before they ever dreamt of having a class, and I'll take blessed good care that it don't spoil all our fun, Tom," and he winked and nodded in a knowing fashion that set Tom laughing again.

But the laugh was cut short this time by the sudden ceasing of the clang, clang, of the school bell, and both boys set of to run the remaining distance at the top of their speed. For they would be marked late if they were not in their places by the time the other lads were seated, so that there was no time for further talk just now.

Soon after the ordinary school work began, the master came to take the names of those boys whose parents wished them to join the scholarship class.

"What did your father say about it, Winn?" he asked, pausing in front of Tom.

"If you please, sir, father is ill; but mother would like me to join, and she will speak to father about it when he gets better," answered Tom.

"Very well, I will put your name down, my boy; but you must take care to work a little more, and laugh a little less in school time, and attend the class regularly, as well as doing all the tasks set you."

"Please, sir, I don't want to be a clerk, and sit at a desk all day," said Tom, scarcely knowing how he had mustered courage to say so.

"Very well, you are not obliged to be a clerk; only win a scholarship and you may have a chance by-and-bye of learning something you would like as an occupation. Give all your attention to the lessons that are taught, and you will stand as good a chance of winning a scholarship as any boy in the school," concluded the schoolmaster.

But Tom was not pleased at the outlook before him. He glanced across to his friend Jack Bond, who nodded and winked as only Jack could, and nearly set Tom laughing in spite of the presence of the head-master as well as the class teacher.

They, however, escaped detection, and Tom tried to give some attention to his lessons for the next hour or two, so that his teacher whispered a word of commendation as he passed out.

But after school, when he met Jack Bond in the playground, and the two were free to talk over the events of the morning, Bond did his best to try and set Tom against working steadily in the new class, even if he was compelled to attend it.

"It's all very well for girls to try for scholarships, but why should a fellow like you have to do it?" he urged. "It's fit for girls, of course, but why should you be expected to put your neck into this noose just because your sister liked it? Gals is gals, and boys is boys, and if it isn't good for gals to wear a coat and trousers, why, it isn't good for a fellow like you to wear a gal's frock instead of your own clothes. That's just what it comes to," concluded the young giant, in a tone of authority.

Tom laughed, and professed to treat the talk as a joke; but he went home feeling uncomfortable, and was snappish and out of temper, for when Elsie opened the door and asked him in a whisper if he had got his name put down, he pushed her aside, exclaiming, "There, don't you bother about what, don't concern you! I shan't tell you anything again, if you're going to run off to mother with it directly."

"What have I told mother?" asked his sister in surprise, for Tom often confided in Elsie when he had got into a scrape at school, or wanted a little service done to help forward some of his plans. "What have I told mother about you?" she demanded again.

"Why, there was no occasion for you to run and tell her about that class, as you did," said Tom in an injured tone.

"Well, but that didn't matter, Tom; you were going to tell her yourself before you went to bed. I thought you might not get a chance when you went up, and so I told her, that she might have time to think about it, and tell you at once when you spoke to her," said Elsie in an altered tone.

"Well, don't go chattering about my business again," said Tom, crossly.

But he soon forgot his ill humour when he heard that Elsie had made his favourite pudding for dinner, in honour of the news he had brought home the previous day; and with his mouth full of this sweet delicacy, he forgot what he had said when he first came in, and told her Mr. Potter had arranged that the class should be commenced the following Tuesday. It was to be held from six to seven, in their own class-room, and eight boys besides himself had given in their names to join it.

"I hope that Jack Bond isn't one of them," said Elsie, in an uncautious moment.

"Why not? The Bonds are as good as we are, any day." said Tom.

"Well, perhaps they are; but mother says—" and then Elsie remembered that her mother had said she had better not mention Bond's name to Tom, as it might do more harm than good, if she attempted to interfere with the boys.

"Now, then, out with it! What had mother got to say about Jack, I should like to know? Just because Sadler Street isn't one of the most fashionable places in the town, everybody is down on poor Jack, and that is why I always take his part."

Elsie thought she had better occupy herself with the children and their dinner, and not notice what Tom said, for fear it should lead to a quarrel—for Tom was quarrelsome very often—and she had a hasty temper. But nothing of the kind must be allowed to take place now that her father was so ill, and peace and quietness was so necessary in the house.

Tom grumbled on, and Elsie busied herself with little Bobbie and his pudding, so that there was no breach of the peace at the dinner table. Before he took his cap to go back to school, Tom asked her to sew up a rent in his trousers when he came home, which she readily promised to do, as a peace-offering for having spoken against his chosen friend.

She did not, however, forget that the following Tuesday was to be the first meeting of the class. And when five o'clock struck, and Tom had not come home to tea, she began to grow anxious, for, from various hints he had dropped, she feared he was not so anxious as he ought to be to profit by this extra class.

Half-past five came, and then Tom rushed in, hot and out of breath. "Give us some tea, quick!" he said, as Elsie opened the door. "I shall be late for that blessed class if I don't look-out, and then Potter will have a fit."

"Oh, Tom, how is it you are so late?" said Elsie, in a reproachful tone. "I had your tea ready by five o'clock, for I thought you would be sure to be home, that you might have time to wash yourself before you go back."

"Oh, yes, I shouldn't wonder! What do girls know about things? It's a jolly shame to have to give up just the only time I can be out to play, for this stupid old class. Why, the tea is cold!" he exclaimed in disgust, pushing away his cup.

"Perhaps it is. I got it ready early to-day that you might have time to get it comfortably before you went back to school; but you are more than half an hour late."

"Suppose I am," said Tom, speaking with his mouth full of bread and butter; but he did not seem disposed to hurry himself, although Elsie was impatient to help him to get off, that he might not be late for the class.

He went at last, and his sister hoped if he ran all the way he might reach the school by six o'clock.

But these small worries about Tom and his concerns Elsie kept to herself, for she could see as the days went on, that her mother grew more anxious about her father. For, although she knew he was dangerously ill, she did not fully understand the extent of the danger, and no one thought it wise to tell her just then.

[CHAPTER IV.]

A BRAVE RESOLUTION.

MR. WINN lingered for nearly a month. There were intervals during this time when he rallied sufficiently to give some hope to his anxious wife that he might yet recover, and be spared to them for a few years longer at least.

During one of these intervals, he was able to listen while Elsie told him that she had won the scholarship, and that Tom was going to try for one next year.

He fully approved of Tom going to the preparatory class for this. For, as he remarked to his wife, if he should fail to win a scholarship that would enable him to go to a better school for a year or two longer, the additional knowledge he would gain from attending this preparatory class would be sure to prove useful to him, if he should have to leave school earlier, and begin the business of life for himself in earnest.

He also spoke to Tom about this, and the boy promised to be diligent, and give his teachers as little trouble as possible, as they were so willing to help him forward in his school work.

But as the days went on, these intervals of comparative ease grew less, and there were days when the invalid could not say a word to his children, and was scarcely able to gasp out what he needed to say to his wife. The doctor knew that, although his life was prolonged beyond the time he had thought possible when he first saw him, that the end could not be far off, and he did what he could to prepare Mrs. Winn for what he knew was approaching.

But although she was thus warned, the blow fell at last with a terrible shock, both to mother and children, and they were all for a time overwhelmed with grief and dismay.

How the rest of that dreadful week passed in Elsie's home she never quite knew, or whether she ever thought that the death of her father would make such a difference in her future.

Until after the funeral, no word was said about any change in their mode of life; but one day, when this was all over, she said,—

"Mother, shall I be able to go to school next week?"

Her mother looked at her for a moment, and then the tears slowly filled her eyes.

"My poor Elsie," she said, "I am afraid our loss will fall very heavily upon you."

"But, mother, it will not cost us anything for me to go to the grammar school," said Elsie, looking a little frightened.

"My dear, we must have a little talk together, you and I. You know, dear, that now father has gone, I must work and keep the little ones."

"You, mother? What can you do?" asked Elsie, opening her eyes with something like wonder and alarm.

"Only one thing, dear. I have learned to make the children's frocks and your dresses very well; and I must earn some money by doing dressmaking for other people."

"But who will take care of Bobbie and baby?" asked Elsie.

"That is what I am coming to, dear; and it is a question you must decide. With your help to manage the house and the children, I think I could keep home, and all of us can live together; but without your help, I cannot do it. Baby would not be happy with a stranger; and I could not expect another girl to be so careful of things, so that there is no waste, as my own little daughter."

"And, oh mother! You want me to give up the scholarship, and not go to school any more!" exclaimed poor Elsie, bursting into tears, and throwing herself into her mother's arms, as if her heart would break.

"My poor Elsie! My poor darling! It is hard I know, dear," said the mother, tenderly stroking the girl's hair, and kissing her, while her own tears fell like rain. Mrs. Winn had dreaded telling Elsie this bitter truth,—that she could not afford to let her go to the grammar school, even with the scholarship; but she did not think she would feel it so bitterly as this.

At last Elsie grew more quiet, and then she whispered, "Tell me everything, please; I will try to be a good girl, for dear daddy's sake."

"Yes, yes, I know you will, my darling; and I have tried to think of a plan that would save you from this disappointment. But there seems no other way, dear, but for you to help me at home. For I should not like to send either of the little ones away to an orphan school if I could help it. They are very good schools, I daresay, but I want to keep you all together if I can. Almost the last thing daddy said was, 'You'll keep the children all together.'"

"Yes, mother, you shall; and I will help you," said Elsie, in a choking voice. "I will take care of the house, and Bobbie and baby, so that you can work."

"God bless you! my dear," said her mother. "You have lifted a great weight from my mind; and I believe I can do as daddy wished now. It is hard for you, my dear; but I will contrive that you have some time for reading, for I know how anxious you are to learn."

"Thank you, mother," was all Elsie could say; for although she had made up her mind what she ought to do, and what she would do, it was none the less hard, and she was glad to run up to her own room, and cry out her trouble there.

When she came down, she had bathed her face and tried to smile, but Bobbie looked up at her and said, "Elsie ki!"

"Bobbie, go and fetch that stick for baby," said his mother; for she could see Elsie was having a hard battle with herself.

The next day she went and told her governess that Mary must have the scholarship, now that her father was dead.

"I am very sorry, my dear; very sorry indeed; but I saw your mother one day last week, and I think you are quite right in what you have decided to do."

"I did so wish to go to the grammar school," said Elsie, the tears shining in her eyes as she spoke.

"Yes, dear, and I should have been very glad if you could have gone; but you know the object Of all education is not merely cramming the memory with facts of history, or rules of grammar, but the building up of character. And so, in learning self-control and self-forgetfulness (as you must do in helping your mother), you will, I am sure, be learning lessons as valuable as any that could be taught at the grammar school. And for the mere facts of history, and rules of grammar, you may be able to make up for their loss by your own reading. I have heard this morning, that we are likely to have an evening continuation school for girls here this winter; and so, perhaps, your mother might be able to spare you to come to that; and if she can, I will take care that you are placed in a suitable class."

"Thank you," said Elsie. But it was said rather drearily, for nothing could make up for the loss of what she should have learned at the girl's grammar school, Elsie thought.

It having been settled before that Elsie was to have the scholarship, there were letters to write, and explanations to be given, as to why the change was made in the scholarship girls, before Mary could feel certain that she was to have it.

Of course she was glad of the chance—doubly glad that she had taken Elsie's advice and gone through with the examination, instead of giving it up at the first difficulty. If she had not done this, it would, of course, have gone to another girl, and another school.

Elsie's friends all felt sorry for her. But she could not stay to talk to them this morning, for she was wanted at home to mind the baby, while her mother went out on business.

Of course, some blamed Mrs. Winn, and Elsie too. But in trying to do the duty that lay nearest them, they were undoubtedly right; and they had the satisfaction of knowing this, and also that they were trying to carry out the last wishes of the dear one, who had so lately been taken from his work here below.

Mrs. Winn made it known among friends and neighbours, that she was prepared to make either ladies' or children's dresses, in the latest fashion. And to ensure success, she herself went to take lessons in the best method of cutting and fitting.

They were not absolutely penniless. Her husband had made some provision for his family; but it was necessary that they should be very careful in their expenditure, for Mrs. Winn could hardly expect to get much work just at first.

But the story of Elsie's scholarship had got abroad, and people said that mother and daughter were alike brave in striving to help themselves and each other; and work began to come in faster than the widow had dared to hope—so fast, indeed, that she soon had as much as she could do. And when Elsie's school-fellow, Jane Holmes, came to see her, and asked if she could be taken as an apprentice, Mrs. Winn felt quite glad of the offer.

It had not occurred to her to try and get an apprentice. But when this offer was made, she thought she could but try how the plan would answer, and so she asked Mrs. Holmes to call and see her about the matter.

"I think Jane would do more for you, Mrs. Winn, than she would for anybody else, because she feels so sorry for Elsie in her disappointment," said Mrs. Holmes, when the two had talked over the business. "I am afraid she is not very quick with her needle just now, but she knows it is quite hopeless for her to think of getting a scholarship, or even being a governess, by-and-bye; and, as she must learn to do something for her living, she hopes you will give her a trial."

This Mrs. Winn was quite willing to do. And so Jane came and took her place in Mrs. Winn's work-room, while Elsie scrubbed, and cooked, and swept, and dusted, and took care of the children; and her life was much happier than she thought it would be.

Having decided the question about the scholarship, she took up her work in the house with real interest, trying how well she could do this, how much trouble she could save her mother in that, and what expense could be spared in the other.

She soon learned to know that it is not money, it is not pleasure, that gives happiness, but the interest that life affords, that gives it its real value and zest.

Sorely did they miss the loving father; but they could not afford to sit down and indulge in useless repinings. Life had too much for them to do to sit down and shed useless tears. And so Elsie and her mother found themselves happy, though they were not always free from care and anxiety.

In this way several months passed. Mrs. Winn had as much work as she could get through. And, though it was sometimes difficult, with all the care and economy, to make ends meet without breaking into the little capital that was put away; still it was done somehow, and the little ones were not allowed to feel the loss of their father where mother and sister could help them.

Then one day Tom came home from school, rather later than usual, bruised and dirty, and with several rents in his jacket.

"Where have you been, Tom?" exclaimed Elsie, when she saw what a plight he was in.

"Oh, don't bother," said her brother, pushing her aside; "I don't want girls worrying about me," he added, as he rushed into the scullery to wash his face, and remove the traces of the fray in which he had been engaged, before his mother should see him.

"Where have you been, Tom?" exclaimed Elsie.

Tea was nearly over, and Mrs. Winn had gone back to the work-room, so she did not see Tom as he came home. But the bruises and scratches could not be washed off with water; and the jacket was sadly dilapidated.

"Look at you's jacket," said Bobbie to his brother.

Tom turned the sleeve round, and Elsie looked at it too. "Oh, Tom! It is too bad of you to go and tear your clothes like that," she said.

She felt almost ready to cry; for Tom's jacket would take an hour to mend at least, and she would have no time to read the book a friend had lent her. She only had a little while after the children had gone to bed, for her mother insisted upon going herself in good time, and so the mending of this jacket would occupy all her spare time this evening.

She grumbled a good bit about this, and Tom turned sulky over being grumbled at by a girl, and would not say where he had been, except that he went home with one of the other boys to see his rabbits.

Mrs. Winn was vexed, and Elsie cross; but Tom went off to bed without saying where he had been. And he took care to go to school the next day without any fuss. Elsie had mended his jacket very neatly, and he felt half ashamed this morning that he had given her so much trouble; but all he said to show it, was to tell Bobbie that he would come straight home from school and play with him.

During the last few weeks, Tom had often come home from school very late, and Elsie felt sure he must often have been late for the scholarship class. But her mother had not noticed this, for she was so very busy with her dressmaking at Christmas time, and Elsie had not told her, because she did not wish to add to her worry, and also because she hoped that after Christmas Tom would turn over a new leaf, and come home at meal times more regularly.

And she ventured to say as much to him, now that she had had to mend his jacket, and before he could wear it again.

"Oh, all right," said Tom. "Don't you worry your curly head over me; I can take care of myself," said Tom, carelessly.

"It don't look much like it to see your face," said Elsie. "And I think you ought to consider mother, as well as taking care of yourself; and you seem to forget everything but running the streets with that hateful Jack Bond. Mother was cross last night when she came down, soon after tea, and found you had not come in, for she wanted you to go to the shops for her."

"Oh, well, you went instead, and the run did you good," said Tom, as he went off whistling, yet somehow feeling uncomfortable about what his sister had said as to considering his mother.

"I must turn over a new leaf," said Tom, little dreaming what a painful turning over it was to be. He had promised Elsie he would do this after Christmas, and had thought no more about the matter, and he went off now trying to forget it.

Poor, foolish Tom! It was not difficult to forget all his promises to Elsie, about turning over a new leaf by-and-bye. He little guessed that it would soon be uncertain whether he would ever again have the opportunity of turning over a new leaf. There seemed plenty of time now, and Tom quite intended to be a good boy, and help his mother and sister by-and-bye.

That thief of time and present opportunity, "by-and-bye," so easily persuaded the foolish boy that he need not think of these things just yet. That he could forget them, and enjoy himself, and leave the future to take care of itself, without thinking of other people, and their claims upon him.

[CHAPTER V.]

TOM'S ILLNESS.

A FEW days after the incident of the torn jacket, Tom woke one morning feeling heavy and drowsy, and when he got downstairs, he complained of having a headache and sore throat. He could not eat his breakfast, and his mother told him he had better go back to bed again, as he had evidently caught a severe cold.

"You have got your feet wet, I expect, and not changed your boots as soon as you came home," said Mrs. Winn, "although I have often heard Elsie tell you to do it."

There had been a long continuance of wet weather, and Bobbie and baby had both been poorly from colds and coughs, and so Mrs. Winn was not in the least alarmed about Tom.

He was asleep at dinner time when his mother went to his room to see what he would have, but soon after she went back to her work, he called to Elsie to bring him some water.

"I am so thirsty," he said, when his sister took him some drink.

"How is your head now, Tom?" she asked, for she was very fond of her brother, although he did give her so much trouble sometimes.

"Feels like a pumpkin," said the boy as he nestled down in the pillow again.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea presently?" said Elsie. "Perhaps that will do you good."

"Perhaps it will," murmured the boy, in a sleepy tone, as he turned his head from the light.

Elsie generally took her mother a cup of tea to the work-room, about three o'clock, and when she had done this, she poured out a cup for Tom, and cut a thin slice of bread and butter, and took both up to him. He was asleep, but tossing his arms about restlessly, and rolling his head on the pillow, and moaning so dolefully, that as soon as he had drank the tea, Elsie went off in a fright to tell her mother that she thought Tom must be very ill.

"It is a feverish cold he has got, and he may have to lie in bed two or three days," said Mrs. Winn, who was not alarmed at trifles, and had often seen Tom suffering from a chill.

She was too busy to go and see Tom again at once, but at tea time, she took him a cup of tea and another slice of thin bread and butter.

Tom was moaning restlessly in his sleep.

"Tom, dear, wake up and have your tea," said his mother, laying her hand on his forehead to rouse him.

Tom opened his eyes, and seized eagerly upon the tea to drink, but he did not want anything to eat, and was soon as drowsy as ever.

Mrs. Winn went back to the work-room after she had had her own tea, feeling vaguely uneasy about Tom. It might be only a feverish cold, she argued with herself, but she wished he did not roll his head so much when he was asleep, for she began to fear that it might mean a more serious illness than a simple cold. If she did not have to practice such strict economy, she would have sent for a doctor at once; but doctors' bills were a terror to her, and she sent Elsie to the chemist's for some medicine, which she gave him in the course of the evening, hoping he would be a good deal better in the morning.

The medicine certainly seemed to relieve his head, after he had taken it a few hours, but instead of being able to get up the next morning, as his mother had hoped, Tom was most unmistakably very ill when she went to see him, and she decided to send for the doctor without further delay.

So when Jane Holmes came at nine o'clock, Mrs. Winn asked her to go and fetch Dr. Weston to see Tom as soon as he possibly could. And when she came back, she sent her to the work-room, to wait there until after the doctor had been.

Poor woman! She did not tell even Elsie what she feared was ailing Tom. She could only hope that the doctor would say she was quite mistaken, and that the symptoms were only those of a feverish cold.

But her heart almost died within her when the doctor, after examining Tom, turned to her and said, "Where has he been, Mrs. Winn?"

"He goes to school, doctor," she said in a faint voice.

"Has he been playing in Sadler Street? Do any of his friends or school-fellows live in that street?" asked the doctor.

"He has no business to go near the street, but I cannot say that he has not, for he has been rather late coming home from school lately."

"The reason I asked was this, they have scarlet fever in that neighbourhood rather badly just now, and this looks like another case, and I have heard of no other at this end of the town."

"Oh, sir!" was all the poor woman could utter for a minute or two. For scarlet fever would mean the ruin of her business, and might possibly bring them all to beggary before it had run its course.

The doctor understood the exclamation, and the look of dismay in the widow's face as she turned to look at Tom.

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Winn, but I am afraid there is very little doubt that he has taken the disease from somebody. Now the question is, what are you to do about your work?"

For the doctor knew all about the dressmaking, and had recommended her to his wife.

"I must send and let the people know, of course," said the poor woman.

And then she burst into tears, for this would mean that she could not earn a penny for weeks, or possibly even months.

"Yes, the work you have in the house must be sent back at once," said the doctor; "but I should like you to find out, if you could, where he has been lately, for I have not heard of any other case of scarlet fever in this neighbourhood; and I think, if you are careful to follow my directions, we may keep it from spreading further; or would you like him sent to the hospital?" suddenly added the doctor.

"Oh, no, no! I must nurse him myself, and trust in God to provide for us afterwards," said Mrs. Winn, with another sob, and then she forced back her tears, and gave all her attention to the doctor's directions for isolating Tom from the rest, and what she was to do before she went to the work-room to send back the work she had in the house by Jane Holmes.

Tom's head was aching, and he still felt sleepy, but he could understand enough of what had been said by the doctor to know that in his folly and wilfulness, he had brought a great calamity upon his mother and sister. And he had promised his father a few days before he died, that he would do all he could to help them, and this was how he had fulfilled his promise.

He did not say a word to his mother, for as soon as the doctor had gone, she went to change her dress, that she might send the work back, and tell Jane Holmes that there would be nothing for her to do until Tom got better. But while his mother was away, Tom tried to control his thoughts that he might be able to tell her that he had been with Jack Bond to Sadler Street several times lately, although Mr. Potter had told them at the scholarship class to avoid going there, as he had heard that there were cases of scarlet fever in that neighbourhood.

But the very effort to think this out, so as to be able to tell his mother all about it, seemed to make his head ache and throb worse than ever, so that by the time she came back, he could only utter a wild cry of "Mother! Mother!" And then he muttered something about a man driving nails in his head, when he meant to say that he went to see Jack make a new hutch for his rabbits.

Mrs. Winn did what she could to soothe Tom's restlessness. But it soon became evident that he was growing rapidly worse, for during the afternoon, he became quite delirious, and the doctor had to be sent for again.

"What does he mean about the nails in his head making rabbit hutches?" asked the doctor, after listening to Tom's wild talk. "Has he been making a rabbit hutch lately, that it should seem to trouble him so much?"

"No; he has no rabbits to make a hutch for; but all his talk has been about that."

"Yes, it seems to be troubling him a good deal, too," said the doctor; "I wish you could find out all about it, and whether he has been to Sadler Street lately."

"Yes, I will," said Mrs. Winn, for she thought if she could only discover what was the cause of Tom's evident distress, she might be the better able to comfort him and relieve it.

So as soon as the doctor had gone she changed her dress, washed her face and hands in disinfectant, that she might not carry the disorder to anyone else, and then went to the school to see the master, and learn, if possible, what had caused Tom's illness.

Mr. Potter came forward as soon as he saw who his visitor was. "You have come to see me about your son, of course, Mrs. Winn, but I really cannot take him back into the scholarship class. He is doing no good to himself in it, but simply hindering the boys who want to—" then seeing the look of wondering surprise in his visitor's face, he said, "I understood it was Mrs. Winn who wished to see me."

"Yes, I am Mrs. Winn; but I do not understand—I have come to tell you that my eon is very ill—dangerously ill, I am afraid, and the doctor thought you might be able to enlighten us as to where he has caught it, for it seems to be scarlet fever. Have you heard of any other boys in the school having it?" asked the widow.

"Yes, there have been several cases among the boys who live in Sadler Street, so that for the sake of the other scholars, and under the advice of the doctor, I have sent to all the parents of children living there to say that they must not come to school until the sickness is over."

"Then Tom could not have caught it in that way," said the widow.

"Not unless he went to Sadler Street for anything, and then he might," said the master. "You see, he was very intimate with a boy who lived there, and he may have persuaded him to go home with him for something. I believe he went there to help him to make a rabbit hutch when he played truant from the class, for I have heard from another lad who met him that he was on his way here in the company of Bond, but he never appeared, and that was what decided me to take the step I did, and tell him that he could not come to the class again."

"When was he told that?" asked the widow, with a sigh. For this was a trouble she had not expected, and it did but increase her anxiety concerning Tom.

"I told him myself the last day he was at school. He was not here yesterday all day."

"No; he was taken ill yesterday morning, and could not get up. You think he may have gone to this Sadler Street?" she added.

"I think it is very possible he went there, although I warned all the school not to go through that street on their way home, if they could avoid it. A few months ago I should have said that Tom would not have disobeyed that order, but lately he has given us a good deal of trouble, and it is just possible that his companion Bond persuaded him to go there in spite of all I said. If you will wait a minute, I will ask some of the boys, before they leave, if they know anything about it;" and he went at once to the room where Tom's class was preparing to go home.

Up went half a dozen hands as he had asked the question.

"Please, sir, Winn and Bond were making a rabbit hutch together in Bond's yard. Tom told me, and asked me to go and see it."

"Did you go?" asked the master.

"No, sir. You had told us to keep away from Sadler Street, unless we wanted to be ill. Bond said you had a spite against Sadler Street, and him too, and that's why you had told us not to go!"

"Very well, that will do, Wicks. Winn believed Bond, it seems, and went there with him, and he is dangerously ill his mother tells me."

Silence fell upon the class as the boys looked one at the other, but they each mentally resolved to take the master's word for the future.

He went back and told Mrs. Winn that it was no secret in the school that Tom had been building a rabbit hutch with his friend, and the probability was that he had gone there frequently, and not simply once or twice. He said what he could to comfort the poor woman, for he could see she was terribly distressed over what she had heard concerning Tom.

On her way back, she called to tell the doctor what she had heard at the school, and how, in spite of the master's warning, Tom must have gone to the forbidden street.

"Ah! And it is this disobedience that is troubling him, and causing the brain mischief. I am glad you have found this out, Mrs. Winn, but I am afraid it will make our work the harder; and he will suffer a good deal more in his head from this cause than from the fever alone, for the one will complicate the other, and he will need the most careful nursing and watching."

The widow went home sadly depressed and disheartened. She did not mind how hard she worked for her children; but to work hard as she had done, and then learn that, through her boy's wilfulness and folly, she had laboured almost in vain, was bitter indeed, and she could not help telling Elsie something of what she felt.

Poor Elsie could not bear to feel angry with her brother, now he was so ill, but she turned her wrath upon Jack Bond. "It is that wicked boy, mother, not our Tom who is to blame," protested Elsie.

"But, my dear, Tom is to blame, for he ought to have known better than to go near the street after the master had warned the boys not to do so."

She did not say a word to Elsie about the other news she had heard at the school. She could not talk of Tom's disgrace even to Elsie just now; she felt it too keenly. That her boy should be expelled from a class they had all thought it an honour that he should enter, was a very great disgrace she thought, and at least she would spare Elsie the bitterness of this knowledge if she possibly could.

She went back to the sick-room, and found Tom moaning, and tossing, and crying out about the nails in his head; and the neighbour who had come in to stay with him while she went out, told her he had continued these moanings all the time she was gone.

"I tried to make him understand that we were not putting nails into his head," said the old lady.

But Mrs. Winn knew that all such efforts were useless just now, and that Tom would have to bear as best he could the terrible punishment his own folly and disobedience had brought upon him.

Poor Tom felt as though he was far away from everybody who could help him, and that the man with the nails would drive them into his head, do what he would to get away from him, while his heart-breaking cry of "Mother! Mother!" made his mother's heart ache. For when trying to soothe him, he would roughly push her away, and throw himself to the other side of the bed.

As the days went on, poor Tom grew worse, until his mother was almost worn out with sleeplessness and nursing, while Elsie downstairs was scarcely less anxious than her mother, for the isolation in which they had to live added to the distress and discomfort.

Elsie had always been very popular among her school-fellows, and the circumstances under which she had been compelled to give up her scholarship had rather added to her popularity, so that scarcely a day passed but one girl friend or the other came to see her, or bring her a book to read. But now, with the dreaded scarlet fever in the house, people were obliged to stay away, and no one but the old lady next door, who would not be kept out, ever came near them.

This was hard upon Elsie, and sometimes she thought this one or that might call and ask how Tom was getting on, for the bedroom where he lay was securely isolated from the rest of the house, lest she or the little ones should catch the infection. So that, as she reasoned, it was not likely any one would catch it standing at the street door for a minute.

But still they did not come, and Elsie, shut away from her mother and the sick-room, with no society but Bobbie and baby, found the days very long and dreary, and it was hardly surprising that she grew pale and peevish. For although she took the children out for a walk every fine day, friends were careful, if they met her, to nod, and, after asking how Tom was, hurry on as though she had got scarlet fever as well as her brother.

But for the neighbourly old lady next door, Mrs. Winn must have broken down under the strain, but she insisted upon coming to sit with Tom every afternoon, while his mother had an hour's rest, and went for ten minutes' walk in the open air. This old lady had been an hospital nurse, and insisted that some of these wise rules should be followed by the widow. And as Tom was always more quiet when she nursed him, Mrs. Winn could not but follow her advice, and was very thankful for her help.

But for her willingness to learn of one who knew more about sickness than she did, her strength would scarcely have held out, for Tom's illness was prolonged until the doctor feared that his strength would be exhausted before the rallying point was reached, and he said a word or two to Mrs. Winn, lest, if the disorder should take an unfavourable turn, it should prove too great a shock to her already over-strained nerves.

"Oh, doctor, save him!" she implored. "I know my poor boy has something on his mind he wants to tell me. Save him for this!" she added, with a burst of tears.

"You know I will do all that is possible," said the doctor; "and I hope his strength will yet hold out. We must hope for the best," he added, "and watch for the first chance he may have of being able to speak, and tell us what is troubling him."

"I am sure he wants to tell me something," said poor Mrs. Winn.

And in this, her mother's instinct was correct, for, in his delirium, Tom was trying, trying, always trying to tell his mother how sorry he was for vexing Elsie and disobeying his schoolmaster. But now, when "by-and-bye" had come, he could not speak, did not know what he wanted to say, or whether his mother was near to hear him.

Never trust the promises of "by-and-bye," boys. Seize the present moment to do your duty, whatever it may be, for fear you should never have a chance of doing it later on.

[CHAPTER VI.]

JACK BOND.

TOM grew perceptibly weaker as the days went on, but the anxiously looked-for sleep did not come so soon as it was expected. At last, however, the tired brain could hold out no longer, and, to the intense relief of his mother, he went to sleep one morning holding her hand, and when Mrs. May came in an hour later, he was still sleeping, though rather restlessly.

"I am afraid to take my hand away, for fear of disturbing him," whispered Mrs. Winn.

The old lady nodded; "sit still for a bit longer," she whispered. And she went down stairs and fetched some strong beef-tea for Mrs. Winn herself, for she could see she was growing faint from the long strain.

"Now, my dear," she said to Elsie, "you just go and bind a piece of cloth round that knocker, and keep the children as quiet as mice. We shall have Tom down stairs again as well as ever I hope."

"He is really asleep at last," said Elsie.

"Yes, my dear, he is asleep; but at present a very little noise will disturb him, and so the house and children must be kept quiet, for his life depends upon his getting a long, restful sleep. Make some more beef-tea for your mother and Tom too. I shall stay now I have come," concluded the old lady.

Elsie was tying up the knocker to muffle its sound, when a boy said, in an eager, anxious whisper, "How is he, Miss Elsie?"

Turning half round as she tied the last knot, she came face to face with Jack Bond. In a moment she darted indoors, and almost slammed the street door in his face, she was so angry at the sight of him.

But as she stood with the lock in her hand, to make sure that he did not get in, a whisper came through the keyhole, "Do, please, tell me how he is. You don't know how sorry I am, for I always liked Tom."

Then Elsie opened the door about an inch, and said, "Go away, Jack Bond. You have nearly killed our Tom; and if there is any noise to waken him now he has gone to sleep, it will kill him."

Poor Jack groaned, but moved a little way from the door. Elsie fetched baby to hold him at the parlour window for a little while; and just after she got there, she saw Jack dart down the street to where a man was calling vegetables in stentorian tones, that made her quake as she listened.

But a word from Jack brought an end to the shouting, and then she saw him point across to the house. The man nodded, left off calling his wares, and pushed his barrow quietly past the house, while Jack took up a position on the pavement to watch for other hawkers.

This touched Elsie, and quite subdued her anger. She felt sorry she had answered him so gruffly, and at last she tapped at the window, and then cautiously opened the street door, and thanked him for what he had done.

Jack looked very pleased to receive her thanks, and then he said, "I'm going to stop here and keep the street quiet for Tom. Put the baby into his go-cart, and I'll wheel him up and down for you."

But before Elsie could reply, or even make up her mind whether she ought to accept this offer, a cart dashed past making a considerable noise, because there was a patch of loose stones opposite the house, where the road had just been repaired.

Jack turned to look at the cart and the road, and Elsie murmured, "Oh, that dreadful noise! I wish they hadn't put those stones down."

"Wait a bit, Miss Elsie; I know what I'll do," he said, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought out two or three pence.

He darted off down the street, and Elsie returned to the parlour window, and presently she saw him returning with a huge bundle of straw on his back. The straw was not clean, but there was a good heap when he untied it, and he scattered this over the loose stones.

By great good fortune, a mud cart came past just as he had finished, and he persuaded the man to put a little of the half-liquid slush on the straw, so as to keep it from blowing away.

Elsie, watching from the window, thought he was very clever to think of such a device, and actually went to put baby's coat and hat on, that he might go out in charge of the boy she had almost hated during the last few weeks. If any one had told her a few days ago that she would have trusted their darling to that wicked boy Jack Bond, she would have said it was impossible. But now she wheeled him out at the side gate, with her own hat on, for baby was fractious this morning, and must go out, if the house was to be kept quiet, though she was not quite sure that she ought to let him go with this stranger.

"Won't you let me wheel him up and down, Miss Elsie? I will be very careful," said Jack, pleadingly, when he saw her come out.

Elsie hesitated for a moment, but the big overgrown schoolboy looked very good-natured and very unhappy. "You see, I've waited about here before, for a chance to do something for poor Tom—just to let you know I was sorry for making him ill."

"Well, if baby will let you wheel him, and you can keep any of the organ men away, I shall be glad," said Elsie; but she was careful not to resign the handle of the perambulator until they were a little way from the house, for fear baby should scream out his displeasure at the change of nurses.

But he graciously smiled at Jack, when he replaced Elsie, and did not seem to mind being left in his care, so that she was able to run home to look after Bobbie and the house-work with a light heart.

She went about her work of washing-up, sweeping, and dusting, almost without a sound, and noticed with satisfaction how quiet the street was that morning. Every hawker's cry was hushed before the house was reached, and the carts going over the padding of straw and mud made no grating noise now to disturb Tom.

The doctor, when he came, commended Elsie for muffling the knocker. "Your brother has gone to sleep at last, I suppose, and everything will depend upon him not being disturbed," he added, for he knew that Elsie would be able to secure quiet in the house better than any one else, as she had charge of the little ones.

That anxious day passed slowly enough to the watcher; but Tom slept on, and his breathing grew more regular as the hours went on.

At dinner time, Elsie took Jack some bread and cheese, and asked him to stay and watch for the organ men. "Mother has been downstairs, and she thinks Tom looks a little better already," said Elsie, "and she told me to thank you for the straw, and what you have done for us this morning."

"I only wish I could do ever so much more. No, thank you, I am not hungry, and I can't eat all that bread and cheese. I'll just have a little bit, to save me going home, for I daresay if I went, there'd be a jolly row in the street," said Jack, with a touch of pride, as he looked round.

"The organ men would be bad for Tom now," said Elsie.

"Yes, and there'd be one at each side of the house, if I was to go away," said Jack.

As he spoke, a party of boys, on their way from school, turned into the street, in the midst of a noisy argument, that seemed to involve a good deal of shouting.

Out darted Jack from the gateway, and between coaxing and threats, he managed to quiet the disputants, much to Elsie's delight and amusement.

"I don't know what we should do without you to-day," she said, when he came back to take the bread and cheese. "If you have done us a good deal of mischief, I believe you are sorry for it now," she added frankly.

"I am, I am!" said the boy; and he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes and turned aside his head, for he would not like to let a girl see him cry, and he could not keep the tears out of his eyes just then.

Elsie turned away, leaving the side gate open, that Jack might not feel himself shut out from them entirely now. Truly he was a curious lad, she thought, and if he had led Tom into mischief, he must care for him, or he would not wait and watch with such patience to quell every harsh-sound, lest he should be disturbed.

Not until dusk, when hawkers had given up the business of the day, and organ men had shouldered their instruments and were plodding homeward, did Jack resign his self-imposed task and go home.

At six o'clock the next morning, Elsie unbolted the street door, and there stood Jack close at hand. "Them milkmen will begin their noise soon," he said, in explanation of his early visit. "How is he now, Miss Elsie?" he asked anxiously.

"Still asleep, and mother feels sure the danger is almost over," said Elsie, cheerfully.

In the course of that day, Tom opened his eyes, and recognised his mother for the first time since he had been ill.

"My boy! My darling!" she said, kissing him tenderly.

"Oh, mother!" he gasped.

"You must not try to talk, my dear. Drink this, and we will make you comfortable." And while she raised him in her arms, and gave him what the doctor had left for him to take, Mrs. May shook up his pillows, and smoothed the bed, so that he might go to sleep again comfortably.

"Have I been asleep long?" asked Tom, in a feeble whisper.

"A few hours, dear," said his mother.

"I have had dreadful dreams," said Tom, drowsily. And as he spoke, his eyes closed, and his mother placed him in a more restful position, that he might sleep again.

When the doctor saw him, he said that, with care and patience, Tom would recover now; but they would have to bear in mind that the illness had been a severe one, and they must not expect him to get well and strong very quickly.

As soon as he was able to talk, he told his mother how grieved he felt that he had brought so much trouble upon her, for if he had only obeyed his schoolmaster, and kept away from Sadler Street and Jack Bond, he would never have been ill.

"My dear, Jack Bond is as sorry as you are for what he has done," said Mrs. Winn; and then she told Tom of the kind attentions of his school-fellow.

"Poor old Jack! So he has had a bad time too," remarked Tom. "Will you let him come and see me soon, mother?" he asked.

"When you get stronger, my boy," replied Mrs. Winn, with something like a sigh, for as the days went on she found the doctor's words all too true. At first Tom seemed to get on nicely, and each day he appeared a little stronger, and then he seemed to come to a standstill.

When all danger of infection was over, he was moved into another room, and it was hoped that this change would help him; but it made little difference, for he still continued weak and languid, in spite of everything that was done for him.

As soon as the house was thoroughly disinfected, and all fear of infection was at an end, Mrs. Winn sent to her friends and customers, telling them that Tom had recovered, and she would be glad of any work they might have for her. But the days passed and not a single dress was sent, and then she learned, to her dismay, that during her enforced idleness, two others had set up in the business of dressmaking close by, and one of these knew many of the people whom she had worked for.

As weeks went on, and so little work came in, that only half her time was employed, she began to think that she had better move to another part of the town.

Then a friend suggested that, as Tom was still so very delicate, it would be better perhaps to move a little further away from London, and go where the air was fresher and purer. In a country village, the rent would be less, and they might even get a garden large enough to grow their own vegetables.

"Oh, mother, I should soon get well if we had a garden like that," said Tom, who overheard the talk.

"Yes, you always liked a garden, I know, my dear," said his mother; "but there are other things to consider besides the garden,—my work to be thought of."

"Well, now, I think there is an opening for a dressmaker in Fairfield, Mrs. Winn, and you could not fail to get on if you went there," said her friend. "Why, two years ago, when I went to my mother's funeral, I could not get a dress made in the place for love or money; and a good many gentry live round, who would be glad enough to have a dressmaker at hand."

Elsie, seeing how ill her brother looked, and hearing him talk about the delight of having a garden, also begged her mother—if they must move—to go into the country, until at last Mrs. Winn arranged to go to Fairfield, and see if there was a house to be had likely to suit her. It was not an expensive railway journey, and Tom and Elsie were so anxious to move into the country, that she thought she would at least make the trial for their sakes.

Tom had not been able to return to school, but his friend Jack often came to see him, and went with him for short walks; for Tom could not walk far, and was often glad to take Jack's arm to help him home again.

Jack had grown wonderfully gentle and tender over Tom, and bore with his impatience and fractiousness with as much patience as Elsie herself. Jack had not returned to school, although the epidemic of scarlet fever was over now; for his father, who was a carpenter, had discovered that his son was beginning to learn the use of tools, from the way he had built the rabbit hutch. And finding he had grown so much more quiet and steady the last few months, he had decided to apprentice him to his own trade as soon as he could. But he, too, thought of moving, as there was a better opening for his trade in another town, and so the two boys, as they walked, discussed the question of who would move first.

"I hope you will, Tom," said his friend one day, "for I could help you, and there are plenty to do our packing; but you would be of very little use."

"Everybody seems to think I am useless now," said Tom, peevishly.

"No, no, Tom! It's only that you have not got your strength back yet; and every time I see you, old fellow, I blame myself for persuading you to come and help me with that rabbit hutch, my father says it's a decent bit of work for two boys to turn out, but he little knows what it cost."

"It's been pretty hard on my mother," said Tom with a sigh.

"Ah, it has that, and upon your sister too. I never see her but I think what a couple of idiots we were to go against the master's orders as we did."

"But you couldn't help going to Sadler Street," said Tom, quickly.

"No, but I might have known better than persuade you that Potter had a grudge against me and the street, as I was always driving into you. It's a lesson I shall never forget, Tom—never as long as I live—and I'll take care nobody ever fills my mind with such stuff as I crammed you with; and don't you ever let anybody do it to you again. If you had looked at the thing fairly and squarely all round, you might have known that Potter wouldn't do such a thing; and I'm heartily sorry I ever said he had a spite against me and Sadler Street, for that was the beginning of all the trouble."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Tom with a yawn, for although they had not walked far, he was too tired to talk, and was glad to lean his weight on Jack's arm, and return home to lie on the sofa and rest. During this resting, he had ample time to think over his folly. It was all very well for Jack to say he was most to blame, but Tom recalled, with bitterness, his broken promises to Elsie to turn over a new leaf, and how he had deliberately tried to forget it, that he might join in Jack's foolish fun.

Jack had a sister, it is true, but she was not like Elsie; and, besides, Jack had a father, and there was little need for him, perhaps, to stick to his lessons. But his neglect had well-nigh ruined his mother he knew. Bitter reflections these were, but Tom had no others just now.

[CHAPTER VII.]

CHANGES.

MRS. WINN was very well satisfied with all she saw at Fairfield. It was early spring, and everything was looking its best. It seemed a cosy little village. There were one or two shops, a tiny church, and village schools. She had little time to see more than this, for, of course, as the general appearance of the place pleased her, she went in search of a house, and was directed at the general shop where to find a vacant cottage that the man thought might suit her.

She found it was rather larger than most of those in the village, but it was a regular country cottage. It had five rooms, and a large garden at the back. There was a pretty little porch over the front door, and a tiny flower garden separating it from the road.

It had not been occupied for some time, and the garden, back and front, were weed-grown, and the house itself needed some repairs.

And after looking at it, she returned the key to the grocer, and then learned that he owned the cottage, and was not merely the agent as she supposed, and she found that he was willing to put the house into thorough repair, when he learned that Mrs. Winn wanted it for herself. The rent he asked was so much less than what she had ever paid before, that she could only wonder that it had stood empty a month instead of nearly a year.

The landlord agreed to have everything ready for them to come in by the end of March, and promised to have the garden dug and got ready for Tom to put in some vegetables.

So Mrs. Winn returned home with renewed hope, and a glowing account of the pretty cottage she had taken; and described the garden with its apple tree and currant bushes, until Tom and Elsie were almost wild with delight at the anticipation of living in the country.

Fortunately for Mrs. Winn, houses were in demand just now in this London suburb, and so the card bearing the announcement, "This house to let—" had not been in the window many hours before someone called to see the house. And in less than a week, the business was settled, and she was free to make arrangements for moving.

To the children, the whole business was a pleasure and novelty. And although Tom soon grew too tired to be of much service in the actual work, Jack Bond came to do his share, and was so strong and willing that nothing came amiss to him. He took up carpets and beat them; took down curtains and blinds and pictures, and helped to pack them. In fact he was so handy in getting the furniture ready for the railway men to fetch, that Mrs. Winn was spared a good many small expenses she must otherwise have incurred, and the whole business was a sort of indoor picnic to the young folks, who had never before known the bustle and excitement of a move.

Of course, to Mrs. Winn, who had spent a good many happy years in this house, there was pain as well as pleasure in the removal, but there was so much to done, and so little time to do it in, that there was no leisure for fretting, even if she had had the disposition to indulge in it.

To friends and neighbours, it seemed that the move was very sudden, and they wondered why Mrs. Winn should be in such a hurry to get away from the neighbourhood, for they thought she might have sent Tom to the seaside to recruit his health, and waited a little longer for work to come in. But the fact was, as one or two of her more intimate friends guessed, she had spent nearly all the little stock of money she had when her husband died, and if she had waited longer, she might not have had the means to move at all.

Everybody felt sorry for the Winns, and their hasty move gave rise to all sorts of surmises; and some even whispered that they might have got into debt during Tom's long illness, and it was because she could not pay her creditors that Mrs. Winn was going away.

Fortunately for her peace of mind, the widow knew nothing of these surmises, and she and her family went away in blissful ignorance that anyone supposed they had done a strange thing in going.

The cottage looked very charming the bright spring day when Tom and Elsie first saw it. They went into raptures over the woodbine-covered porch, and there never was such a garden and apple tree as the one they possessed now. Then there was all the delight of unpacking and arranging the furniture in the quaint old rooms, where they all agreed it looked much nicer than in their old house.

For the first few days, they were so busy doing this that they failed to notice that their own was almost the largest house in the village, and Elsie was the first to remark that the cottages about them were rather poor and small; and the women she saw standing about, when she went through the village street, did not look as though they would want much dressmaking done for them, and she ventured to say as much to her mother one evening.

"Their frocks are like sacks, with a couple of holes for their arms," said Tom, in a disparaging tone. "There certainly is not much more shape in them," laughed his mother.

"But I did not expect to find my customers among the village folk," she added.

"But there don't seem to be any other people living here," said Tom, who had explored the neighbourhood as far as the end of the village street.

"Not close at hand, perhaps; but there are gentlemen's houses round the neighbourhood, and that is where I shall find my customers I hope. When we have got straight, and I am ready to begin, I shall have to go and see some of these ladies, and ask them to give me some work."

Tom did not like this suggestion. "You did not have to go and beg for work before," he said.

"No, my boy; I had friends all round me, and I just told them what I thought of doing, and they asked me to do their work. That is all the difference."

"It means that we haven't got any friends about here," said Elsie.

"Yes, that is it exactly; but we must make friends as fast as we can, you know."

Mrs. Winn soon found, however, that this was not so easy, even with the poorest of her neighbours. They were strangers—that was the only fault that could be brought against them. But it was sufficient to make them be regarded with suspicion, if not absolute dislike. For they could not understand why anybody should want to come and live in their village, unless it was to spy upon them, or take their work away from them in some way, or lower the wages that the farmers paid them.

Mrs. Winn smiled when she saw how the village folk avoided having anything to say to them; but Tom found it no smiling matter when the street boys called after him, or hung over the fence and laughed at his attempts to dig and rake over the garden.

Mrs. Winn found, too, that the village school was a long distance from their cottage; and she feared, from what she heard, that it was a very different school from the one Tom had been attending.

He was a fairly good scholar for his age, but she knew, if he was ever to push his way in the world, he would need to be at a good school for another year or two.

However, she comforted herself with the thought, that when she got plenty of work, as the rent was so low, she would be able to send Tom to some good private school; and in the meanwhile, he should go to the village school, as soon as he had got the front garden in order.

She and Elsie had made the inside of the house neat and comfortable; and her front parlour, which she decided she would keep to receive her customers, was quite ready; and so she thought she would go and make some calls, and leave her cards at the houses of some of the gentry near at hand.

She had so far prevailed upon some of her neighbours, as to get one of them to bring her some milk from the farm every morning, and she contrived to meet this woman one day, and ask her the nearest way to the Manor House, for that she had heard was one of the best houses in the neighbourhood.

"The Manor House," repeated Betsy Gunn, staring at Mrs. Winn; "and what may you be wanting at the Manor House?"

It was Mrs. Winn's turn to stare now, and she said rather stiffly, "That is my business, I think, I only want you to tell me the best way to get to it."

"Then I sha'n't tell you," said the woman defiantly. "The folks is all saying you ain't come to Fairfield for no good; and now I know you ain't."

"But what can you know about it, Betsy? I only want to go and see the ladies there."

"And tell 'em all that you sees goin' on here!"

"But what is there to tell?" said the widow, with widely-opened eyes. "You are all steady, hardworking people; and if you do gossip and quarrel, sometimes, that is nothing to anyone but yourselves."

"And you want to go and tell old madam that we gossip and quarrel, and so get our Christmas coals stopped! No! No! Betsy Gunn ain't goin' to help no such doings as that."

Mrs. Winn wondered for a minute whether the woman had lost her wits, but she saw plainly enough that she spoke in all earnestness. And she wondered what she had better do to disarm the suspicion that seemed to her so senseless, but was to these poor people real enough.

At last she decided that there was nothing like telling the truth, painful as it was, to make her affairs known to all the village. So she beckoned Betsy into the parlour, that she and Elsie had taken such pains to make neat and nice.

"Sit down a minute," she said, "and I will tell you why I have come here, and what I want to do. I am a widow, and my husband could leave me very little money when he died; so I am obliged to work for my children, or they would starve, and it is to get work I have come here."

"What work?" demanded Betsy.

"Dressmaking," said Mrs. Winn.

The woman's hard face relaxed a little. "Us don't do that,—the gentry and their fine servants send that to London."

"That is just what I was told," said the widow, "but now I am going to ask some of these ladies to send it to me, instead of sending it to London; and I want you to tell me the best way to go to Madam Kennaway lives there the Manor House. I understand, and if I can only see her, I may be able to get some work."

The woman nodded. "She ain't bad, but old madam is the best. You ask to see old madam."

"Very well; and you will tell me the way to go?"

Yes, Betsy was so far won over, that she was willing to do this now.

But Mrs. Winn was a little alarmed when she heard that the Manor House was nearly five miles from Fairfield. Five miles seemed a moderate distance to Betsy, but Mrs. Winn had not walked so far for many years, and there was no railway or other conveyance that she could ride back. Betsy told her which way to go, and Mrs. Winn set out on her walk early the next morning, resolving to call at other suitable houses on the way, but chiefly concerned to reach the Manor House and see Mrs. Kennaway.

She was tired and spent when she at last reached the imposing looking mansion. But the thought of her children made her overcome the faintness that crept over her, and she rang the bell, half hoping the servant would ask her inside the cool hall, to wait while he took her card and message to his mistress.

But this splendid footman looked at her almost as suspiciously as Betsy Gunn had done, and then told her to wait outside on the steps, if she could not leave her card and call again.

"Call again!" Why, it would take her all day to get home again she feared, tired as she was. So she stepped back to the top of the terrace steps and waited—waited until she thought the man must surely have forgotten her. And she was just going to ring the bell again, when the door was thrown open and her card handed back to her.

"Madam does not see strangers," he said pompously.

And then the door was closed, and the visit to the Manor House, upon which she had built so many hopes, was over. And she could only turn and walk down the smooth white marble steps, wondering how far she should be able to walk before she fell down utterly exhausted.

Presently she reached a shady knoll where she could sit down and rest; and while she rested, she wondered what she was to do now, for the reception she had received had never been expected.

That she might have some little difficulty at first, she had thought quite possible; but that rich and poor alike should refuse to have anything to do with her because she was a stranger, seemed almost too absurd to be believed. And she pinched herself to make sure that she was wide awake and not dreaming, as she sat there and recalled what had happened.

Her friend had advised that she should go to the Manor House first, for she knew Madam Kennaway, and spoke of her as being kind and considerate in her treatment of servants, and therefore likely to be the same to others whom she employed.

But it seemed as though there could be no consideration left for a mere stranger, such as she was, in the place. And her thoughts grew very bitter as she toiled along in the hot sun.

Still she would persevere; and she made up her mind to call at another house she had been told of by Betsy, and which lay only a little way out of her road homeward. This was not such a grand house as the other. It was not much more than an enlarged and improved edition of her own cottage; and the doctor for the district lived here.

She could not expect a doctor's wife to do for her what the great Madam Kennaway might have done; but she resolved to call and see the lady, unless she, too, would have nothing to say to a stranger.

A little maid-servant took her card and message, when she knocked at the door. And then she was ushered into a plainly furnished room at the side, to wait while the servant went in search of her mistress.

"I suppose you have heard that I have a large family of girls and boys, who are always tearing their clothes," said the lady, when she came in.

She spoke very pleasantly; and then, noticing how pale and tired Mrs. Winn looked, she asked if she would have a glass of milk and a piece of cake. And, scarcely waiting for the widow to say yes, she rang the bell, and told the maid who answered it, to bring the milk as quickly as she could.

While she rested, and drank her milk, the lady explained that she did not put out much of her dressmaking as a rule, but that as one of her girls was going away for several months, she should be very glad of her help just now. And, when she had recovered from her fatigue a little, she should be glad if she could take her daughter's pattern, so as to begin one of the dresses at once.

This chance of getting work seemed to put new life into Mrs. Winn, and she was able to talk quite freely to Mrs. Perceval, and tell her how it was she came to Fairfield.

The doctor's wife knew where she lived quite well—had seen the furniture carried in while she was sitting in her husband's gig, waiting while he visited a sick man a few doors further on.

"I asked some of the old goodies who was coming to live there, but they could only tell me they were 'Lunnon people,' and seemed rather aggrieved that London people should dare to come to their village."

Then Mrs. Winn told her of her encounter with Betsy Gunn, and the two ladies laughed over the villagers' suspicion and ignorance.

Before she left, she had told Mrs. Perceval of Elsie's scholarship; for she felt almost as proud of her resigning it, as she did of her gaining it.

Mrs. Perceval was evidently very favourably impressed with the new dressmaker. And when she went home, she carried a large parcel of work with her, the sight of which cheered Tom, who was at the end of the lane on the look-out for her.

Elsie had got the kettle boiling, ready to make a cup of tea for her mother, at least an hour before she returned. In fact, the girl had grown quite anxious over her mother's long absence, and wondered whether there were robbers in the woods about here now, such as there used to be years ago. For Betsy Gunn had told them a harrowing tale of what took place at the other end of the village in her grandmother's time. If it was not sufficient to frighten Elsie and Tom, it was enough to make them very glad when their mother got back.

And so, when Tom came rushing in, calling, "Here's mother! Here's mother!" Elsie, too, ran to the door to kiss and welcome her.

It was only a little thing, perhaps, but this warm, dutiful welcome from her children cheered and comforted poor Mrs. Winn as nothing else could have done just now. It is a pity when young people treat their parents slightingly. They often have to toil by day, and think half the night how things are to be made smooth and comfortable for their children. In these matters, perhaps, the children can do nothing to lighten the burden of life for them. But they could often cheer and comfort them with little kindly, affectionate attentions, instead of being rude and abrupt in their manners, as they too often are where father and mother are concerned.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

JACK'S NEW HOME.

"I SAY, mother, what do you think?"

Jack Bond burst in at the back door of their new home one Saturday with this exclamation, threw down his carpenter's basket of tools on the floor, and his cap in the air, in joyful excitement over the news he had to tell.

"What do you think, mother?" he repeated.

"Why, that I shall box your ears, big as you are, if you throw down your tools on my new oil cloth. Take 'em away," called Mrs. Bond, raising her voice above the hissing of the frying-pan, where she was cooking steak and onions for the dinner.

Jack slowly picked up the tool-basket, and put it into the cupboard under the stairs. "The kitchen do look nice," he said, as he stepped back and surveyed it, as though he had never seen it before.

"I should think it did," said his mother, turning from her pan for a moment to admire it again. "Quite as nice as anything them stuck-up friends of yours, the Winns, have got; and I mean to have a best parlour too," added Mrs. Bond.

"But Tom Winn and his mother and sister ain't stuck-up," said Jack, still lost in admiration of the kitchen floor. "I don't think their kitchen ever looked so spick and span nice as this does, but everything about 'em was somehow different from us and our things," he added, but still looking with admiration at the new floor-cloth.

Her son's appreciation of her smart kitchen pleased Mrs. Bond, and she turned from her steaming, hissing, frying-pan to join in his admiration of her handy-work.

A change had come over the fortunes of the Bonds. Just before they left Sadler Street, a small legacy had been left them, and Jack's talk about Tom and Mrs. Winn, had given Mrs. Bond the notion that, when she got to her new home, she would turn over a new leaf, and have it neat and tidy—more like the home her son admired so much—for she was very fond of Jack, and felt half jealous of the Winns because he was so often talking about them.

So Jack's admiration, and his admission that her kitchen was now smarter than the Winns', was a gratification to her, and she was ready to hear what he had to say when he once more began.

"I haven't told you the news yet, mother."

"No; what is it, my boy?" said Mrs. Bond in a pleasant tone.

"Why, I've just found out that we ain't more than ten miles from Fairfield, the place where the Winns have gone to live."

"Ten miles is a long way, Jack," said his mother.

"Oh, but I thought it was nigh upon a hundred, and that I should never be able to see poor old Tom again. I say, mother, you would like little Tom Winn," he added.

Mrs. Bond sniffed. "They're a stuck-up lot," she said shortly.

"Who are a stuck-up lot?" asked Jack's younger sister, who came into the kitchen in time to hear these words.

"Why, Jack's fine friends, the Winns," said her mother.

"Well, you see they've got something to be stuck-up about. Look at Elsie's scholarship. Why, all the school was proud of Elsie Winn," said Annie Bond, in a tone of admiration. "I tell you, mother, now we have moved away from Sadler Street, and I'm going to a new school, I mean to try and be like Elsie, for all the girls liked her, and the teachers too."

Jack clapped his hands. "That's it, Annie; you try and be like Elsie, and I must try to go to see Tom; for if ever I get a chance to help him, I must, for the mischief I did for him."

"What could you do for people like the Winns?" said his sister. She had heard Elsie talked about, and admired at a distance, but the thought of emulating her, and giving more attention to her lessons, and the neatness of her appearance, had not entered her head until she heard her mother say she should try and make their new home as nice as the Winns'. And then the idea had occurred to Annie, that she might copy Elsie's example, now that she had got away from Sadler Street and her rude, rough companions.

When dinner was served, and they were all seated round the table, there were still scraps of talk about the Winns; but until he had satisfied his appetite, Mr. Bond, Jack's father, spoke no word beyond asking for more potatoes. But although he did not talk, he was listening, and at last he said, "I wish you had stuck to your lessons a bit closer, Jack; it would ha' been a deal better for yourself, and you wouldn't have led this little chap into mischief."

"That's true enough, dad; and if ever I get the chance to pick up what I lost last year in book learning, why, I'll do it," said Jack.

"Ah! If you get the chance. But will you get it now your school days are over? Boys are fools. I was, I know, and you haven't been much better, Jack, though you had better chances of getting a bit of good schooling than I had."

"Yes, I suppose I did; and I wish now I'd stuck to figures a bit more when I had the chance!" said Jack, with something like a sigh.

"Ah, you're beginning to find out already that a carpenter wants to have figures at his finger ends, if ever he is to be more than a drudge at his trade. That is where the shoe pinches for most of us, lad. We don't think of it when we are at school, and got the chance of learning, but when we leave and find out what we have lost, it is too late to pick up the wasted time. Look at me, now! I've got this bit of money your uncle left me, and if I was only a bit more of a scholard, why, I could take a building job for myself, and make it double itself in a year, but I can't figure it out for myself, and so—"

"Dad, I'll go to the evening school as soon as ever it opens," said Jack. "It ain't too late for me to learn; and I'll stick to the figures, that we may both have a better chance."

"Ah! If you only would," said his father. "Why, we might soon have a board out, 'Bond & Son, Carpenters and Builders.'"

And then Jack Bond burst into a hearty fit of laughing at the mere thought of such glory. Jack's face flushed with pride and pleasure at the thought of being their own masters by-and-bye, while mother and sister looked from one to the other, and wished they could help in the grand scheme.

"I wish Tom Winn lived close by us now; he'd help me pick up a bit, I know," said Jack, at last.

"Ah, he was a nice little chap; quick and handy, too," said Jack's father, who remembered him helping to build the rabbit hutch.

"I've found out to-day, dad, that Fairfield ain't so far off," said Jack, a little eagerly.

"Not so far! Why, it's close on twenty miles by the railway."

"Yes, because the line goes such a round-about way; but by road it ain't more than ten or eleven miles."

"Ten or eleven miles are more than a good walk, my lad."

"Yes, I know; but I'm learning to ride a bicycle," said Jack.

"What!" exclaimed father and mother in a breath.

"It's true enough," said Jack, laughing. "My foreman comes to work on a jigger, and he let me try it to-day, for he said I might find it handy."

"Well," said his father, "what then?"

"Why, I think he might lend it to me now and then to go and see Tom Winn, and I might get a hint or two from him how to begin the figuring out things."

"So you might, so you might; so you might, lad. Why, you might even buy it, perhaps, if it wasn't too dear, and you didn't mind sticking to a bit of work after hours, by way of overtime."

"Only give me the chance! See if I wouldn't stick to it," said Jack, eagerly.

"All right, we'll see, we'll see," said Bond, rubbing his hands, with a smile on his face. But beyond this, Jack could not get him to say a word just then, though it was evident that his father had some plan in view, or he would not have said so much.

Work was over for the day by dinner time on Saturday, and Jack went to wash himself and change his clothes after dinner, for he had promised to take his sister for a long walk to see some famous woods about a mile beyond the town. And as soon as the brother and sister were fairly started on their walk, the conversation, of course, turned upon what had been said at dinner time.

"Do you know what dad means, Annie?" asked Jack, eagerly.

"No, I don't; but I heard him say something last night to mother about having the first offer. I say, it would be fine if we could have a board like father says," she added.

"Aye! 'Bond & Son, Builders.' But we've got to earn the right to put it up first, Annie. The board won't do us any good, if we can't do the building, you see," he said, thoughtfully.

"Why, of course not! only I should like to tell you that I will help if I can. I can't get a scholarship like Elsie Winn did, but if I can help you and dad to get that board put up, you'll see if I won't do it."

"Bravo, Annie! But what do you think you could do? You're only a girl," said her brother, in rather a disparaging tone.

"Only a girl!" said Annie, with a little toss of the head. "If I am only a girl, I can do sums better than you can, and my new governess at this new school says I am very quick at arithmetic. There is a girl, too, in my class, who is learning arithmetic on purpose to keep her father's books when she leaves school, and so I don't see why I should not do the same."

The idea of a girl learning to keep accounts was altogether a new one to Jack, and he did not see at first how it was to be done, if she did not understand the use of plane, and saw, and hammer, and chisel, as well. But he was willing to admit that it was worth trying; and if she could only succeed in helping her father and himself, why, it would be quite as useful to them as if she had won a scholarship like Elsie Winn.

The talk with his sister strengthened Jack's resolution to join an evening class in the autumn, and do what he could to make up for the time he had wasted at school. And, perhaps, between them they might help his father sufficiently to enable him to make a beginning, and take small jobs for himself. For now the idea had been suggested to them, the brother and sister were both eager to do what they could to realise their father's ambition in this way.

"I'm pretty sure there is an evening school where I go, Jack," said his sister, after they had walked a little way in silence. "Of course it is only for the winter, not for the summer," she added.

"The winter is quite enough for me," said Jack, with a wry face at the prospect of going to school again, and adding up long rows of figures once more.

"But you will go, won't you?" said Annie, who saw the look.

"Oh, yes, I'll go for dad's sake; I must, I suppose, if we are ever to have that board out he was talking about at dinner time."

"It won't be a bit like Sadler Street then, will it, Jack?"

"It ain't like Sadler Street now, with our tidy kitchen; and perhaps I shall have a bicycle soon. I wonder what father meant when he said I might be able to buy it?"

Annie shook her head. She was not much interested in bicycles, and wondered what Jack could want one for, and said so.

"Oh, it's nice to have a bicycle, if it is a bit old-fashioned. I could go to Fairfield and see Tom Winn if I only had a bicycle."

"I thought Tom Winn was in it," said Annie, a little tartly.

"And why shouldn't he be? I tell you what, if we ever do get that board outside, it will be all Tom's doing. See what a fellow I was till I got pulled up short, and learned to know the Winns. I tell you what, Annie, poor Tom's illness did me a world of good. For it made me think, and a fellow ain't much use in the world till he does learn to think a bit. And so I feel as though I owe them a debt that I've got to pay somehow, for Tom being ill like that was awful hard on his mother; and it was more my fault than his that he caught the fever. So if ever I get the chance of doing any of 'em a good turn, I'll do it, you bet."

"But what can you do?" asked his sister.

"How can I tell? I shall try and get that bicycle, if Jackson will sell it, and go and see them sometimes, and then, perhaps, I may find out. There is no telling what may come in a fellow's way; and when he begins to think a bit, why, he may be able to put this and that together, and see how he can help a friend. Tom now wants to be a gardener, and where I'm at work, they teach chaps to be first-rate gardeners—real tip-toppers; that would be good enough for Tom Winn.

"Well, I mean to keep my eyes and ears open about how the fellows get in there. I know some of them have to pay a pile of money for the chance. Tom couldn't do that now his father's dead, but there might be some other way of getting in, you know; and if I could only find out, and get that bicycle to go and see Tom, why—"

"If ifs and ands were pots and pans," laughed Annie, "Jack Bond would soon have a bicycle."

Jack made a dash as though he would pull her hair, and then the brother and sister turned into the woods, and went hunting for wild flowers, and the talk about bicycles and Tom Winn was forgotten for a little while.

[CHAPTER IX.]

JACK'S BICYCLE.

"WELL, boy, I've got the job," and Jack's father grinned and rubbed his hands with supreme satisfaction, as he looked first at Jack and then at his wife across the supper table that Saturday night.

Jack was eating his bread and cheese in a sleepy fashion, for the long walk and ramble in the woods had tired him, and he and Annie had only just got back; but he was alert enough when he heard his father's news. "What job is it, dad?" he asked, eagerly.

"Oh, not a big contract; I couldn't manage that without I know a bit more of figures, and so you must get on to them, my boy, for me. I could tot up a little job like this—for it's just putting a shop front into a private house—and it's a job you can help me at when you have done at your own place. For the man wants it done quickly now he has made up his mind about it, and I may get another when this is finished, if it suits him. I must be up with the lark on Monday morning, and get that workshop ready."

And then there was another rubbing of the hands, and Bond would not have been sorry if his wife had suggested that he should commence clearing it that very night.

But Mrs. Bond hardly knew what to think of this new departure. So long as they lived in Sadler Street, she had been content to live like her neighbours, in a dirty, untidy, thriftless fashion. And it was only because Jack was always talking about the Winns and their nice house, that she decided that she would have something like it when she moved away from the old neighbourhood.

She had made a beginning with the kitchen, and felt very proud of what she had done; but why her husband and Jack should also want to turn over a new leaf us well as herself, she could not quite understand. Though she strongly suspected that it was because there was an old disused workshop at the bottom of the garden, and a gateway at the side of the house leading to it, that had put the idea into their heads. And she did not half like the notion of risking their little bit of money in taking work, instead of keeping it in the bank, and adding to it when he had the chance from his weekly wages.

Jack's father rubbed his hands with supreme satisfaction.

But she knew her husband too well to dispute with him over this, and so she sat and listened while the three talked. For Annie's arithmetic was brought into requisition in working out quantities, and it was nearly twelve o'clock before they went to bed. And then Jack dreamed of figures, and timber, and nails, and paint, and varnish, in such a confused jumble, that he woke up the next morning wishing more than ever that he had stuck to his lessons when he was at school, instead of wasting his time, as he often had done, and turning every bit of school work into a source of fun for the others to laugh at.

The other boys had thought it clever at the time, and so did he, but he knew now that if he had had more sense, he would have known better than to waste his time in such folly. For he could do nothing without Annie's help to make sure that the simplest sum was right; and upon the accuracy of working these out correctly, would depend whether his father lost money, or made a profit, upon the work he undertook. But out of this grew the steady resolution that, however distasteful it might be for a big fellow like him to go to school again, after he had begun working at a trade, he would go, and give all his attention to the intricacies of arithmetic, until he had mastered it.

He would have begun working at simple sums at once, if he could, but he was to begin helping his father with the carpentering on Monday as soon as he got home. And so his only chance to do this was in the odd minutes he might snatch during the dinner hour; and he resolved to keep a pencil and paper in his pocket, that he might do this whenever he had the chance.

As soon as day dawned, his father was up and clearing out the old shed, repairing the broken window, and making it ready to begin work as soon as the wood should be brought in for him to begin upon.

Jack came home at tea time with shining eyes and glowing cheeks.

"I say, dad, Jackson, my foreman, wants to sell his bicycle. It's a good strong one, will wear for years he says."

"Then what does he want to sell it for?" asked Bond.

"Because it's a bit old-fashioned, and he's been saving up to buy a new one; and if he can sell this soon, so as to get another, he will let it go cheap."

"What does he call cheap? Because I happen to have a pound or two in the bank I can't afford to waste it. And if—"

"But I don't want you to give me the money, dad!" interrupted Jack. "He says if I can pay him ten shillings in a fortnight, and five shillings a week afterwards until it is paid, and you will agree to see it is paid, he can order his new machine at once, and I can have his old one when I pay the ten shillings."

"Well, that sounds fair enough, my boy. But I tell you what, I should like to see the machine myself, and get somebody else to look at it who understands such things. You tell him what I say, lad, and hear what he thinks to it. Now, make haste over your tea, for that bicycle has got to be earned yet, you know, and I have got a bit of work ready for you."

So as soon as tea was over, Jack went to his new work in the old shed. And although it was not very pleasant to begin again when he had already done a fair day's work, still, he set to it with a will.

Fortunately for the two workmen, Mrs. Bond was determined to have a share in the new departure. And, knowing that a man cannot do extra work without extra food, instead of going out to have a gossip with a neighbour, she and Annie busied themselves with cooking a tasty little supper from the bones of the previous day's joint, a few scraps of meat, and some fresh vegetables, and a little pearl barley. So when Jack and his father came in about nine o'clock, expecting to see the customary bread and cheese set out upon the table, they found Annie toasting some bread, and Mrs. Bond turning out a dish of delicious stew.

Her husband looked rather alarmed at first. "I don't say I don't like it, Mary," he said, rather solemnly, "but hot suppers is an extravagance I can't abide."

"It won't cost above a penny more than the bread and cheese, except the extra trouble, and that's mine and Annie's share towards the new board that you want outside."

Jack had thought he was too tired to eat any supper until he smelt the savoury stew. And probably if there had only been the bread and cheese, he would have gone straight to bed without eating anything, and been less able so do his work the next day. But this light, savoury supper tempted him to eat, and when he went to bed, he slept soundly all night, and was ready to get up in the morning and go to work as usual, which could scarcely have been the case if his mother and sister had not taken their share, by providing a savoury hot supper that was nourishing and digestible.

"I feel as fresh as a daisy, dad. Overtime work don't hurt me," said Jack, when his father asked if he felt tired.

"That's all right, my boy. You worked well last night, and I expect mother's supper helped you along. I've been getting on to-day, but I want you to help me a bit each evening this week."

"Why, of course you do. How am I to get my bike if I don't do a bit of overtime work?" asked Jack.

"Ah, about that bicycle. Did you tell your foreman what I said?"

"Yes, and he is going to bring the machine with him to-morrow, and then I can bring it home for you to see, and ask some other opinion about it."

"Well, that looks straightforward, lad. If the thing is all right, you shall have it, on the understanding that you go to the evening class next winter, and work away at the figures, and do what you can to help me with the job I have got, and perhaps another after it."

But Jack shook his head to this proposal. "No, dad, I'll promise about the evening class for the winter, I've made up my mind about that, and I'll stick to it, though you will have to trust me for it. But I'll just take the money I can earn fair and square, and when I've earned half, I'll have the jigger if it's all right. That's the bargain I've made with Jackson to-day, for I'd rather earn it before I get it. He's going to lend it to me sometimes on a Saturday to ride out a little way, and find out about the road to Fairfield. For as soon as ever I can, I want to go and see how Tom Winn is getting on, and—"

"And tell him about the board we are going to have outside," interrupted Annie.

"No, no, we'll wait a bit, and see how we get on first," said Bond, a little anxiously.

"All right, dad, I won't say a word about the board till we find out whether we can put it up, and keep it up," said Jack.

"That's it, my lad; I don't want to make a fool of myself to anybody, and especially to them friends of yours that you think so much of."

"I don't see why you should think them such grand folks. Mrs. Winn was only a dressmaker, I've heard," said Mrs. Bond, a little tartly, for somehow she always did feel a little jealous of her son thinking so much of these strangers.

"You don't know Mrs. Winn, mother, or you would say what everybody else does, that she is every inch a lady."

"What is a lady, Jack?" asked his sister.

Jack scratched his head, for the question was a hard one for him to answer, but at last he said, "Well, I suppose it is to be kind, and say civil things, and always look nice, and have a clean, tidy room."

Jack's father laughed until the tears came into his eyes, and in the midst of it, Jack took up his cap and went back to work. And after he had gone, his father said, "The boy ain't so far wrong neither, for there's many a fine madam with plenty of money, who ain't no lady, and there's many a working lass who would put the fine madam to shame; and so I think our Jack has hit the right nail on the head after all."

Jack brought the big bicycle home in great triumph the next day, and was not a little proud when his mother and sister came to the street door to see him ride it up and down the street.

His father said it looked all right, and seemed to go straight enough, but still he meant to have the opinion of someone who understood the things. And they would push on with the work for an hour, and then knock off a little earlier, so as to take the machine, and have a skilled opinion about it.

Jack was very anxious about this, for he knew some one else had offered to buy the machine; and so if his father was not satisfied with it, the foreman would probably sell it the next day, and all chance of being able to ride over and see Tom Winn sometimes on a Saturday would vanish.

So when after an hour's steady sawing and planing, his father straightened his back, and said, "Now, Jack, we will knock off for to-night, and go and see the bicycle doctor."

Jack was not long throwing off his apron and making himself tidy, ready to go and see the man who seemed to hold his summer happiness in his hands.

To his intense relief, after some close examination, the man pronounced the machine a very good one.

"It's old-fashioned, of course, but it has not been much worn. How much is the owner asking for it; five pounds?"

"No, two," said Jack, quickly.

"Then it's a bargain," said the man; "and as you have good long legs of your own, it will do as well for you as a more fashionable one. Where do you think of riding it?" he asked.

"To Fairfield, as soon as I can ride well enough," said Jack.

"To Fairfield! Well, that's too long a spin for you just at first. Ride it for a month, my lad, before you attempt that journey."

Jack looked disappointed, for he had made up his mind to set out to see Tom the very day the bicycle became his own. But as he walked home with his father, he promised to take the man's advice, and not attempt such a long ride until he had perfect mastery of the machine, which he could not expect to get until he had ridden it a few times.

But he had the satisfaction of asking the owner to call and see his father on his way home from work the next day. And a fortnight later, he had paid the deposit agreed upon, and took the bicycle home, and put it where he could look at it, as he worked beside his father in their own workshop.

Bond's first job was finished, and gave so much satisfaction, that he soon got another from the same man, and it seemed likely that Jack's services would be required every evening for the rest of the summer.

But his father promised that he should go to Fairfield on an early Saturday afternoon; and in the meanwhile Jack was hunting up some information, that he hoped would prove most welcome news to Tom when he did go. It required a little patience and perseverance to make sure that what he had heard was correct; but when he was sure of his facts, he decided that he must go to Fairfield the next Saturday, even if he had to go by train, for the news was too important to be delayed a day longer than was necessary. And when his father knew what it was, and why he was so anxious to see his old friend at once, he would not say a word against him going the very next Saturday afternoon, if it was fine. And if it should prove to be wet, then he had better go by train, although it would be rather an expensive journey, he feared.

But the eagerly anticipated Saturday proved to be almost a perfect summer day, and Jack set off soon after dinner, as proud as a prince, on his bicycle, wondering what Tom and Elsie would say when they heard the news he was taking to them.

[CHAPTER X.]

THE NEW SCHOOL.

AS soon as Tom had done a little gardening, and seemed strong enough to return to school, Mrs. Winn called to see the schoolmaster about Tom entering the village school. The master himself was not at home, but she saw his wife, and the two had a long talk, during which she learned that they had only one child, a daughter, about Elsie's age, who was afflicted with what seemed like a spinal complaint, but about which the doctors could not agree, except upon one point, and that was that she must lie upon her back for a year or two.

"She frets about it terribly, poor girl," said her mother, with a sigh; "and I sometimes wish we had never come here, though we did it for Mary's sake, and my husband gave up a much better school than this for the sake of being in the country."

"I came here chiefly on my son's account," remarked Mrs. Winn; and then she told her neighbour about Tom's long illness. "I have a daughter, too, about the age of yours, and it would do both girls good, perhaps, if they could meet sometimes; though Elsie is rather shy of strangers, I find."

"My Mary will not see anyone if she can help it, I am sorry to say. I often wish we had a resident clergyman here now; it would be better for the people and everybody about; but as it is, there is no society for her—no one to come in and see her, and—"

"But surely there is a clergyman here; the church is open every Sunday," said Mrs. Winn.

"Oh, yes, one of Mr. Topham's curates comes over from Somerville every Sunday for service, and sometimes during the week, to look in at the school. But Mr. Topham is a bachelor, so that it is very different from having a rector or vicar with a wife and family living in the village. And it falls hard on my poor Mollie, who used to have a good deal of attention from our former vicar's family."

"Ah! And I shall feel the difference, too," said Mrs. Winn, "for without asking about it, I made sure the vicar's wife would help me. You see, I am a dressmaker, and hoped to find customers among the gentry round."

Mrs. Murray shook her head. "I am afraid there is not much dressmaking to be had in this neighbourhood," she said.

"Oh, but I have several dresses to make now from the doctor's wife," interrupted the widow, for she did not want to hear discouraging news as to her future prospects. Tom was so much better, and the house was so nice and comfortable, that she did not wish to think she could have made a mistake in coming here.

"The doctor is very nice, and so is his wife. I really think Mary would be worse than she is, if it was not for them; for Mrs. Perceval comes to see her sometimes, and being the doctor's wife, and such a perfect lady as she is, Mary cannot refuse to see her."

Mrs. Winn hinted that Elsie might perhaps call and sit half an hour with the invalid, although she had very little time to spare for visiting, as she had the cooking and the children to look after.

But Mrs. Murray shook her head at the proposal. "My poor Mollie is too sensitive to see strangers," she said, with another sigh; "she is like a sweet fading flower," she added.

"But don't you think that is all the more reason why she should have a little cheerful society," said Mrs. Winn.

"She could not bear it," said Mrs. Murray, and then she turned the conversation back to its original theme, and spoke of the school, and her husband's work among the boys, and how rough and backward many of them were.

It was not encouraging to Mrs. Winn to hear such an account of the school, for she was afraid Tom would not benefit much by attending it; and the worst of it was, there seemed to be no other within reach.

Of course, Mrs. Murray said her husband was an excellent teacher, and Tom would be sure to do very well. But Mrs. Winn was by no means so sure of it, for he was just the age when he needed to be at a good school, and which his own folly had rendered impossible.

She went home rather dispirited, but she did not say a word to Tom or Elsie about this. And it was arranged that Tom should go to school the following Monday morning.

The boy was not sorry to hear that he was to go back to school, for he had been away from books and lessons for some months now; and fond as he undoubtedly was of gardening, he had had enough of it to satisfy him for the present, and he was well content to hear that he was to go back to his books again.

So the following Monday morning Tom went to school, fully expecting to see a similar assemblage of boys as he had been accustomed to.

But he stopped short at the door of the schoolroom, and looked round, thinking he must surely have made a mistake; for, to his amazement, there were as many girls as boys seated at the desks, and all were talking together in a fashion that astonished him.

But the sight of the new-comer, standing on the mat, hushed half the voices in the room, and this sudden hush attracting the notice of one of the teachers, he stepped forward and asked Tom what he wanted.

"I have come to school," said Tom, looking round for a class that he thought he might enter.

The young teacher looked puzzled, and sent him to the head-master; and presently Tom was directed to join a class at the further end of the room, as lessons were about to begin.

Tom went to his place, feeling a little shy of his new school-fellows, for they all seemed to stare at him so much. His jacket, his stockings, and even his boots seemed to undergo a critical examination by the class, and this culminated in a roar of laughter when Tom gave his name to his new teacher.

"What is there to laugh at?" the young man asked calmly, while Tom grew furiously angry, for he could hear half a dozen voices repeating his name, and mimicking the tone in which he spoke. Whispers about the "new chap" were passed from one to the other as Tom went to his seat.

And when it came to his turn to read, there was a fresh burst of laughter before he had uttered half a dozen words. But Tom read the sentence unmoved, and then he said, "Please, sir, I can read a harder book than this," hoping he might be moved into another class.

"Harder book than this!" muttered two or three. "Hear to him, Charley," said one, in a loud whisper; "new chap wants harder book that we may all get the cane, 'cos we can't read un. I'll tell my brother Bill to wollop un when us gets out."

Tom did not hear this, but his fluent reading was evidently an offence to some of his class-mates. For while they spelled and stumbled through the words, Tom read them out in a half whisper. And when it came to his turn in the reading lesson again, he read his piece in great triumph.

When the lesson came to an end, he said, "Please, sir, hadn't I better go into another class; I was in the Sixth Standard at my other school, and—"

"There, go back to your place, my boy," said the teacher, "and I'll speak to Mr. Murray after school."

But before school was over, Tom learned to his dismay that this was the highest class. And he heard the teacher say that, work as hard as they might, they would never get above half a dozen boys fit for the Sixth Standard.

Tom went home greatly disgusted. He rushed in to where his mother sat sewing, hot and angry.

"I'm not going to that miserable old school again," he said. "Why, it isn't a bit like Mr. Potter's."

"It's the best there is here, my boy; and we shall have to put up with it," said his mother, looking up from her work.

"Tom, I do think you might wipe your feet when you come in," said Elsie, at this point. "Just look what a muddy mess you have made all through the passage."

"The roads are so dirty," complained Tom in turn. "I did try to find a clean place, but it rained all day yesterday, and the mud is an inch thick. Nobody comes to sweep it away, or make the road passable," he added.

"Well, you might have rubbed your boots on the mat. For if any ladies should come to see mother about her work, what would they think to see such a passage?"

Mrs. Winn sighed, but only sewed the faster, for she was beginning to fear that she had made a mistake in coming here, for more reasons than one; and that Elsie would have no chance of feeling hurt that customers had seen a dirty passage when they called.

When Tom had rubbed his boots on the doormat, he went back to his mother. "I really can't go to that beastly old school," he began again; "why, they're half girls, mother."

"Well, it would not hurt you to learn your lessons among girls," said Mrs. Winn. "Elsie is a better scholar than you are, and she is a girl."

Tom winced as he thought of his neglected opportunities at the Board School. "It isn't that they are only girls," he went on, "but they don't seem to have a Seventh Standard class at all, and I don't believe they have got a Sixth. The teacher said the examination was just over, and the biggest boys had left; but I expect they were all big dunces, for the rest are that are left behind; and I am sure I shall never learn anything there."

"But why not? You must try to learn, Tom, and make the most of the time you are there, for there is no telling how long you may be able to stay at school," said Mrs. Winn.

"Try? I'd like to know what's the good of trying to learn in such a row as they make at that place," grumbled Tom.

His mother smiled. "You used to complain that your other master was so particular that you couldn't wink without the teacher hearing."

"Yes. I thought of that to-day when I was trying to do a sum. Why, it was as easy as pie—the sum I mean; but the buzz, buzz, chatter, chatter, that went on all round, sent my wits woolgathering, and I actually took it up wrong; though a Fourth Standard boy would have got it right in the other school."

"You are hard to please, my boy, I am afraid," said his mother. "At the other school you were always complaining that they were so strict during class time that you could not speak a word, and now this school—"

"Mother, did you see it when you went to speak to the master?" interrupted Tom.

"No, my boy. A half-holiday had been given that day, and so I went to Mr. Murray's house."

"Well, the next time you go out, just go round that way, and stand by the window for five minutes, and you'll know then that it's no good trying to learn in such a Bedlam as that is."

"It is a noisy school, mother," said Elsie, who had come to say that dinner was ready.

"Perhaps it is; but Tom used to grumble before that the other school was so quiet," said Mrs. Winn.

"That was because I did not know what a noisy one was like. I didn't know when I was well off, Elsie," he added.

"I wonder whether they have scholarships here," said his sister, who had not given up the hope that her brother might yet distinguish himself in this way.

Toni shook his head. "No chance of that now," he said; "for nobody could ever get a scholarship in this school, if there were fifty to be had for the trying."

"Tom, I don't like to hear you talk like that," said his mother; "as though you had made up your mind to give up at once, without trying to overcome the difficulties that are in the way of your getting a good education now. Why, what is to become of you, if—"

"I can read better than any boy in the school," said Tom, proudly.

"Perhaps you can, you were always fond of reading. But, according to your own account, you could not do the sum that was set you; and yet you ask me to let you leave school, because of the difficulties that are in the way of your learning. I should be a foolish mother if I gave way to you, my boy."

"But I don't want to be a clerk, and stick at a desk all day," muttered Tom. "Old Mother Gunn says I shall make a first-rate gardener; and she'll tell me lots of things her father told her about grafting, and budding, and other things."

"It's very kind of Betsy Gunn, and I am very much obliged to her for helping you as she does. But you must consider this, Tom, that the sort of gardening that would do when her father and grandfather were young, would not do now. If you are to be a gardener, I should like you to be a good one, and learn it, if possible, at one of the agricultural or horticultural colleges; though how it is to be managed, now you have thrown over the chance of getting a scholarship like Elsie's, I don't know."

Tom opened his eyes in blank amazement. "I never thought a scholarship would help me to be a gardener," he said. "Oh, mother, why didn't you tell me this when I had my chance of getting one," and the tears rose to Tom's eyes, though he brushed them away, for fear his mother or Elsie should see them.

"I did not know you so greatly wished to be a gardener until we came here, and I thought it was enough to tell you that father and I would be glad if you could get a scholarship, when it was first talked about. That if you knew it was your duty to try for this, you would do it without much regard to what would follow. That is where you made the mistake, Tom—you did not do your duty for duty's sake; and now you learn, when it is too late, that if you had taken this course, it would have been the means of gratifying your heart's desire."

"Oh, mother, I never knew I was losing such a chance," said Tom, bitterly.

"Poor Tom, I am sorry," said Elsie; "I wish you could have had my scholarship, and then you would not have had to go to this nasty, noisy school."

"It's of no use crying over spilt milk, Elsie," said her mother. "What Tom has to do now is to take care that he does not repeat the mistake he made before, and neglect the duty that lies plainly before him."

"What do you mean, mother?" asked Elsie, who was inclined to think her mother rather hard on Tom in wishing him to go to this noisy school, where he said he could not do any good.

"Why, Tom's duty now is to make the best he can of his present opportunities, as it is impossible to recall the past."

"But what are his opportunities? He don't seem to have any now," said Elsie, who was always ready to take up the cudgels on Tom's behalf, although his neglect of duty had cost them all so dearly.

"Got no opportunities!" repeated Mrs. Winn. "Why, there is this school we are talking about. It may not be so good as the one we left behind us, but still it will be of service to him, if he will only set his mind to learn all they can teach, and patiently overcome the difficulties that are in the way.

"He must make the best of a bad job, as we are all trying to do, for to sit down with his hands before him, or to spend all his time in the garden, would just be wasting it. And by-and-bye, he might have as great cause to regret doing that as he now has for the losing the chance of getting a scholarship, that would help him so much to the attainment of his heart's desire."

"But there is no chance of getting a scholarship now," complained Tom. He was very angry with himself for his past folly, and disposed to be angry with other people.

"I am afraid that opportunity has gone for ever, my boy; but I want you to see that you may be repeating the mistake that cost you this, if you do not take the present opportunity of learning all you can at this village school. Although it may not be so good as the other, or afford you the same opportunities as you had before, do it because it is your duty, if you cannot like it. And in trying to do this, things will grow easier as time goes on. You will get used to the noise in the schoolroom and the ways of the boys."

"Ah! And get like them, too," said Tom, sourly.

"I hope not, my boy," said his mother, quickly. "Jack Bond told me one day you had taught him to behave himself properly, and so I do not see why you should sink to the level of these rude, rough boys!"

"Poor old Jack! I liked him," said Tom. "I wonder what he is doing now—whether they have got to their new home, and how they like it." The mention of his old school-fellow had turned Tom's thoughts into a pleasant channel, and he said, "Wouldn't you like to see Jack again, Elsie?"

"Yes, I shouldn't mind," said Elsie, "for he wasn't so bad when you came to know him, and he was very kind to you."

"Jack was a brick," said Tom, admiringly.

"Yes, but he led you into all the mischief that caused our trouble," said his mother, "and so for his sake, as well as for your own, you ought not to let it go further than you can help, but make the best of this school, hard as it may be."

It was not very palatable advice to give the boy just now, and he could not make up his mind to follow it all at once. But he determined to go to school in the afternoon without further grumbling, though whether he would try to make the best of things when he got there was another matter. If it was only like his old school, he would give all his mind to his lessons, he thought, but the chance of going to a school like that was over for ever, and once more Tom sighed in vain regret over his misused opportunities.

[CHAPTER XI.]

A MEMORABLE FIGHT.

TOM did not go to school in the best of humours that Monday afternoon, but plodded sulkily through his lessons. He did not try to please his teacher by taking any great pains with his task, nor did he try to bear more patiently the rude country curiosity of his school-mates.

When school was over, he dawdled along the road towards home, still thinking rather bitterly of what his mother had said, and how little she understood the difficulties in his way, when he was suddenly confronted with a big stolid-looking boy, who said in an aggressive tone:

"What be you coming here for, and putting the teacher up to getting harder books for the little uns? I've been to that school, I have, though I ain't no scholard now, and I tell you, you aren't going to do just as you like along of us, so take that," and the big bully felled Tom to the ground with one blow of his fist.

"What do you mean by that?" said Tom, springing to his feet again as soon as he could, and following his antagonist, who seemed disposed to walk off when he saw Tom on his feet again.

"Look here! if you want to fight, and ain't a coward as well as a bully, I'm ready for you." And Tom threw off his jacket, while the boys of the village gathered round to see the fun, and cheer their champion.

"Give it him, Bill. Knock the stuffing out of him this time," shouted one boy, whom Tom recognised as a class-mate. And this lad danced with glee when he saw the big boy turn and face Tom.

"If you want a hiding, you can have it," he said, speaking to Tom; and he made another heavy lunge at Tom.

But he was prepared for it this time, and eluded his antagonist in such a fashion that he managed to plant a well-aimed blow the next minute between the other's eyes, which was so unexpected that he struck out wildly and blindly in all directions, while Tom contrived to dodge about in such a nimble manner that his heavier antagonist had very little chance of dealing another blow like the first.

The boys shouted for their champion at first, but Tom's pluck and clever dodging of his attempted blows compelled their admiration, so that before the fight was over, only Bill's little brother was found shouting,—

"Give it him, Bill. Go it again, Bill; give him another like the first!"

The fight was still in progress, though Tom was looking white and exhausted, when one of the teachers came along, and seeing Tom was ready to drop, though still parrying the blows of his foe, and getting one in where he could, he stepped into the midst of the crowd of boys.

"Now, Crane, what does this mean?" he demanded, sharply.

"Please, sir, it's all fair," gasped Tom, and then a deadly whiteness overspread his face, and to the consternation of the crowd, he dropped as he spoke, and lay helpless and motionless at Bill's feet.

Every boy felt sure Tom was dead, and an audible groan went up from the young rustics; and the redoubtable Bill took to his heels, and, roaring like a bull, fled down the village street, closely followed by his brother and the rest of the boys.

The teacher looked at Tom for a minute, as if debating what he had better do, then picked him up in his arms and carried him to the schoolmaster's house.

"Oh, is he dead? Is he dead?" groaned the invalid girl, when the teacher staggered in with his burden. She had been reclining in an easy-chair at the window, and had seen the whole fight. "Put him on the couch there, Mr. Thompson, and go and fetch mother; father hasn't come in from the church yet."

But Mr. Thompson fetched some water as soon as he could put Tom out of his arms, and did what he could to bring the boy to consciousness before running back to the school for Mrs. Murray. She had been there teaching the sewing-class, and looking after some girls who were kept in, while her husband went to the church to see the clergyman on some business connected with the school.

Tom had so far revived by the time his teacher got back with Mrs. Murray, that he was able to open his eyes and look at the girl by the window, and wonder where he could be.

"Are you better, my boy?" said his teacher, as he came in.

Mrs. Murray's first care was for her daughter. "You should not have brought him here, Mr. Thompson," she said, in a reproachful tone; "the shock will be too great for my poor Mollie."

"Never mind me; I am sure he must be ill," said the girl.

"No, no; I am better," said Tom, trying to raise himself; but he turned sick and faint when he attempted to move, and he closed his eyes in great disgust with himself, because he was so much upset by this fight.

In the meanwhile, the news had spread through the village like wild-fire, that big Bill Crane had beat the new chap till he dropped down dead, and this was the tale that gossiping Betsy Gunn carried to the cottage, where Mrs. Winn was setting the last stitches in Miss Perceval's dress.

In a minute the work was thrown down, and the widow, closely followed by Elsie, was on the way to the schoolmaster's house, where Betsy told them Tom had been carried. By the time she got there, the village constable had also arrived to know the exact truth of the matter before going in search of Bill Crane. Others, too, had gathered round, so that there was quite a commotion outside when Mr. Murray and the curate came upon the scene.

"What is it; what is the matter?" asked the schoolmaster, seeing Mrs. Winn's white, scared face as she came up to the door.

"My boy! My boy!" she panted, pushing her way in without ceremony.

Tom heard his mother's voice, and managed to gasp out, "Mother, mother, I am sorry."

The revulsion of feeling on hearing Tom speak, although his voice was faint and husky, was almost too much for the widow, and she sank down upon a chair exclaiming, "Thank God, he is alive!"

Elsie was scarcely less overcome, but she managed to explain that it was Betsy Gunn who had been to tell them that he was dead.

"It was all through that wicked Bill Crane," said Mary, from her place near the window. "It was really only a boy's fight, you know; only your brother fainted, and I was afraid he was dead at first."

Elsie went and kissed Tom to assure herself that he really was alive, and not much hurt, and then she went over to the window to speak to the invalid.

"I am so sorry Tom should have given you such a fright," she said, for she had heard Mrs. Murray telling the curate that this shock would be sure to make Mary worse. "I hope you will not really be ill through it," she added.

"Oh, it does not much matter, a little more or less illness, when one is so useless as I am," said the girl; but she allowed Elsie to hold her thin, white hand in her strong, capable one, and the contact of the warm fingers seemed to please her, and she said, "Let me hold your hand a minute; I like to feel hands like yours—they seem to do me good."

"What a funny fancy," laughed Elsie; but she gave the girl both her hands to hold, and for a minute or two the girls were left to themselves, while the rest were busy around Tom, who was reviving rapidly under the milk and brandy that was being given to him by Mrs. Murray and his mother.

By the time the doctor came upon the scene, the boy was able to sit up, and was preparing to walk home with his mother and sister.

"This should be a lesson to you against fighting," said the curate, as he was leaving.

"But that big fellow knocked him down first," said Mary, who heard the remark. "I think he did quite right to stand up and let Bill Crane know he could not bully everybody."

"Mary, Mary, you must not get so excited over this," said her mother, in some alarm.

But Elsie pressed the thin, nerveless fingers in thanks for the words spoken on Tom's behalf.

And the understanding between the girls was so far established that before Elsie went, Mary asked her to come and see her soon. "I am generally alone in the afternoon, because mother has to go to her sewing-class at the school, so if you could bring your sewing and sit with me for an hour, I should be very glad."

Mrs. Murray made some remark about Mary being kept quiet, but she could not second the girl's invitation. And so Elsie walked home feeling that Tom's fight might have some consequences not altogether unpleasant to herself, whatever they might bring to Tom.

For the present he was simply feeling a little weak and stiff, and he readily promised to go to bed as soon as he got home, and let them bring a meal to him after he had rested for an hour.

Beyond a few bruises, that were nothing to Tom, all the effects of the fight were over by the next morning, so far as Tom's health was concerned. And it would soon have been forgotten by Tom, or thought of only as other schoolboy battles were, but for what followed some weeks later.

Tom was working in the garden one Saturday afternoon about a month afterwards, when he was startled all at once by a well-known whistle, and looking up he saw to his delight and amazement his old friend Jack Bond looking over the wall.

"Oh, Jack, where did you spring from?" exclaimed Tom, in eager welcome. "Jump over, can't you?"

"Never fear but what I could do that, but my horse here won't take the leap."

"Got a horse!" said Tom. "Go to the gate then, and I'll come and let you in, though I don't know what we shall do with your nag."

"I'll stable him in the kitchen," said Jack, with a grin; and Tom ran up the garden to announce to his mother and sister that Jack had come.

Arrived at the front garden gate, Tom saw that the "horse" was a very high bicycle, which Jack proudly displayed to Tom.

"I couldn't have come all this way, you know, if I hadn't managed to buy this; for though we ain't more than ten or twelve miles away from you now, twelve miles there and back is too far for a walk. But with a jolly 'bike' like this, I can do it easy," said Jack.

"It is a fine big 'bike!' Why, it must have cost a little fortune."

"No; I got it cheap, because you see this sort are going out of fashion a bit. You see, I'm learning my father's trade, and can earn a little on my own account by working overtime. So when I found the foreman of our job had this 'bike' to sell, I stuck to it, and paid him a little every week till I'd paid half, and then he let me have it. By that time, I had found out that I could ride over to you on a Saturday afternoon, and get back by dark on this 'jigger,' and so I've come."

"And I'm glad enough to see you; and so come in and see my mother, and Elsie, and the baby."

After the "jigger" had been safely bestowed in the shed, Tom and Jack went into the garden for a confab. "What are you doing, Tom?" was Jack's first question when they were by themselves.

"Doing!" repeated Tom. "Why, I've done nearly all the garden; and you can see how it looks," said Tom, with some pride.

"Ah, yes it looks pretty tidy," said Jack, with a cursory glance round the neatly kept beds; "but look here, Tom, I've learned a thing or two since I've been on my job; and if I could have my time over again at school, I wouldn't play the fool there as I often did. I wonder the master had so much patience with us. But that isn't what I'd come to say. Do you know where my job is? Why, at a horticultural college, where they teach fellows to be first-rate gardeners! Now I thought, when I heard it, this is just the sort of place for Tom Winn, if he could only get here. And—"

Tom groaned. "Don't, Jack; don't tell me again what a fool I've been, I know it well enough."

"We were both fools, old fellow, in those days, and I was the worst, for I persuaded you not to go to that scholarship class, and led you into all the mischief. You've forgiven me, old fellow, I know, but I haven't forgiven myself; and I never shall, unless I can do something to make up for what I cost you that time. Well, now, I can see a chance. Do you go to school, old fellow?"

"Yes; but it's such a measly old school, that I expect if I was to ask about a scholarship they'd think it was something to eat."

"Never mind; where is it?" said Jack, impatiently.

"Why, here, to be sure, in Fairfield," answered Tom.

And then he thought that Jack must certainly have taken leave of his senses, for he threw his cap in the air, and shouted "Hip, hip, hurrah!" with such gusto that Elsie put her head out of the kitchen door to see what had happened.

And Tom said, rather curiously, "Are you subject to fits now, Jack?"

"Oh, it's the jolliest thing I ever heard of," said Jack, clapping Tom on the shoulder. "Why, my boy, if you only stick to your books, and let 'em see what you can do, it's as easy as pie to get a scholarship out of that measly old school."

Tom's eyes opened very wide. "How do you make that out?" he asked.

"Well, you know, I've thought of you, and what you might have done if you had only got a scholarship like your sister did, ever since I knew what we were building, and one day I said to my foreman, I know a bloke that would make a first-rate gardener if he could only come here and work in these gardens. The gardens are there already, you see, and they're just finishing the college, where there is to be lessons and lectures."

"Well, what did he say?" asked Tom, eagerly.

"'Why,' he said, 'your friend can come here, I expect, if he happens to go to one of the right schools. There's a list of 'em given, and I'll find out if you like the names of those who have a right to send a scholar here for a year or two. Somebody left a pot of money to this place on purpose.' Well, old fellow, you might have knocked me down with a feather when he read out the name of Fairfield.

"'That's it,' I said to him; 'and if Tom only goes to school again, we've done the trick.' I wasn't long paying for the rest of my 'bike;' and here I am, and there you are, a scholar of one of the schools who can send a boy to this college."

And Jack indulged in such a string of his old grimaces that Tom laughed as heartily as he had ever done in his life.

"Come in to tea," called Elsie at this point.

But instead of going in at once, Tom called her to come and hear the news.

"I say, Elsie, Jack tells me there is a chance for me to get a scholarship at this school, if I only like to try."

"Then that was what Mary meant the other evening when I was telling her about my scholarship," said Elsie. "She said their school had something like that, only nobody had ever won it, because the boys were slow and dull, and did not like book learning, as they called it. Oh, Tom, go and ask Mr. Murray about it directly after tea," said Elsie, excitedly.

And after some further talk, it was agreed that Jack should go with him and see if his information was correct, before the matter was mentioned to Mrs. Winn, who was not very well just now, and did not seem able to bear much worry.

So after tea, the two boys went out for a walk. And by way of excuse for calling upon the schoolmaster, Elsie gave her brother a book to take to her friend Mary.

"Can I speak to Mr. Murray, please?" said Tom, when Mrs. Murray would have taken the book without asking Tom to come in.

"You'll find him in the church, I think. Thank your sister for the book," she added.

The boys turned into the churchyard, for Jack was too anxious to hear that he had not wholly wrecked his friend's chances in life, to go home without knowing just what Tom might expect if he applied for this scholarship.

Anxiety lent them both courage; and so when they saw the schoolmaster and curate coming down the churchyard path, they stepped forward and met them.

"If you please, sir, is it true that there is a scholarship for our school if anybody can get it?"

"Do you mean for the horticultural college?" said the clergyman.

"Yes, sir. Tom would make a tip-top gardener if he could only get there," said bold Jack. And then he told them how he had spoiled Tom's former chance, and had just heard that one more remained, as he attended Fairfield village school.

"Why, we never thought of you wanting to be a gardener, Winn," said the schoolmaster, with a smile. "Let me see; how long have you been at school, my boy?"

"A little more than a month, sir," said Tom.

"Then he will have been here just about long enough to be nominated as a candidate," said the clergyman. "I am very glad you came to speak about it, for I was about to write and say we had no candidate ready. Now, I can say, we shall claim our right to nominate one; only, if you are not to disgrace us all, you will have to work very hard at your books through the summer."

"Yes, sir; I shall not mind that," said Tom, in a tumult of delight, that he could hardly speak.

"His sister won a scholarship before she came here," said Mr. Murray, "so I daresay, he knows something of what will be required of him. That will do, Winn; you can go and tell your mother I will do the best I can for you."

The boys indulged in a few gambols at their success before they went home, and then Jack suddenly grew grave, and said, "I had well-nigh forgotten something I meant to tell you. Just before we moved, which was a fortnight or three weeks after you had gone, I met Alfred Mearns with a chap who had been asking about you,—where you lived, and where you had gone.

"I didn't like the look of the chap, and so when he asked me to give him your address, I told him to go for a walk, for he wouldn't get me peaching on my friends. He told me a lot of blarney about something to your advantage, like the newspapers have it, but I said he might take that tale to the marines, for he wouldn't get anything out of me. I could see what he was after, for he had money written all over him."

"Money," repeated Tom.

"Why, yes; don't you twig? I expect your mother left a few debts owing at the shops. What else could be expected when you were ill so long, and nobody earning a penny all the time. I know what things are when father has been out of work for a week or too. So the next time I saw Alf, I said, 'If ever you should hear where Tom Winn has gone to live, forget it, for they won't want any of that sort of cattle after them where they are—'"

"But—but I don't think my mother owed anything at the shops," said Tom, thoughtfully.

"It isn't likely she'd let you know about it. Bless you, I know your mother. She's one of the brave sort, who will carry the care herself and let the children have the pleasure. But if you see her worrying, tell her there's nothing to fear, for I never let out a word, though I came to the station to see you off, and so she won't be pestered for money down here."

Tom was puzzled, and felt somewhat hurt that his friend should think it possible that they could leave the neighbourhood without paying their debts.

"My mother would never do such a mean thing, however poor she might be," he said.

"All right, I'm glad of it, old fellow; only I have heard of such things being done, if you haven't. And I thought if your mother had been driven to do it, she shouldn't be bothered about it. Perhaps the fellow wanted to sell her a sewing machine," he added, by way of changing the subject; for he could see that Tom was pained at the bare suggestion of such a thing being done by his mother.

[CHAPTER XII.]

HERBERT MILNER.

"WHY, my boy, what have you got there?"

The question was asked by a lady, who looked up from doing some bright wool work, to gaze in astonishment at her son, as he set down a heavy Gladstone-bag upon the table.

It was a handsomely furnished room; and the lad, who seemed to be about fourteen or fifteen, did not seem much accustomed to carry heavy burdens, although he appeared pleased enough with this one.

"Feel it, mother!" he said, bringing it round to her side that she might lift it.

"But what is it, my dear?" she asked, lifting the well-stuffed bag.

"They're Mr. Ramsay's papers and things, that have been sent home from the office—papers, and letters, and all sorts—for you see, he was ill such a long time, that often when he went to his office he could not do anything, and these have been turned out of his private drawer; and so, of course—"

"Why, my boy, what have you got there?"

"But what are you going to do with them?" interrupted his mother, in the same surprised tone.

"I have brought them for you to look over," replied her son.

"Herbert! What do you mean?"

"Why, mother, you told me to ask if there was anything you could do for Mrs. Ramsay, and while I was speaking this bag was brought, with a letter, saying they were the papers found in Mr. Ramsay's private drawer. You see, he has been dead a fortnight now, so I daresay they want the room."

"I expect they do; but what am I to do with them?" said Mrs. Milner. "Really, Herbert—"

"I am coming to that directly. When poor Mrs. Ramsay saw the bag, she just sat down and cried. She is a poor thing, mother."

"Yes, I know she is. But you have not told me why you brought them here now," said his mother, impatiently.

"Oh, well, I told her you would do anything you could to help her; and then I asked if I should bring the bag here for you to look over. You know, mother, you are not like Mrs. Ramsay a bit. You don't sit down and cry over things, and so I thought—"

"But, Herbert, you had no right to think that I should like to go through Mr. Ramsay's private papers."

"But you could do it better than Mrs. Ramsay I am sure; and you wouldn't cry over it, as she would," protested Herbert.

Mrs. Milner was very vexed that her son should have put such a literal construction upon her offer to help her friend; and she thought Mrs. Ramsay ought to have known better, than to send her such a task. And so she resolved not to touch the bag this evening, but to call and see the widow the next day, and see if she could not rectify what she considered must be Herbert's blunder in the matter.

So the bag was put away, and mother and son spent a pleasant evening together, which was only once disturbed, and that was by a question that had been talked of occasionally between them lately, concerning an unknown aunt of Herbert's.

Mrs. Milner was a widow, and Herbert was her only son; and until lately, he thought he had no other relative, for his father was an only child. And somehow, without a word having been said about the matter, he had come to the conclusion that his mother also had neither brother nor sister. When, all at once, his mother told him that he had an aunt and cousins somewhere, and she would now like to know where they could be found, but it was so many years since she had heard anything of her younger sister, that she sometimes thought she must be dead.

It almost took the boy's breath away at first to hear that somewhere in the world were people who could claim relationship with him. And every now and again he would ask some question or other about these unknown friends. But his mother could tell him very little, beyond the fact that her sister had offended everybody who knew her, by marrying a man they considered beneath her; and as she refused to take anybody's advice, she was allowed to drift away from all who knew her.

"But the thought of my poor sister Elsie troubled your father before he died, for he thought he had perhaps been hard upon her. And so I promised I would try and find her; and he left some money for her if ever she needed it," she added, when telling her son of this sister.

Mrs. Milner thought she had better speak thus plainly to her son, when she put a carefully worded advertisement into some of the London newspapers; for there was no telling what might come of it. The unknown sister, or her despised husband, might appear at the door of their fashionable house at any time, and Herbert was not one to keep such a matter to himself. And so, to prevent him talking to other people about it, if such a thing should happen, Mrs. Milner told him beforehand.

But nothing had come of those advertisements, and more than a year had passed now; and it rather vexed Mrs. Milner to be reminded of her lost sister.

And so, when Herbert said, rather abruptly that evening, "Couldn't we do something else to find my lost aunt, mother?"

She looked up with a frown, and said, "My dear Herbert, do give your attention to the chess—that is sufficient for the present."

Herbert did not say any more until the game was finished. But when he had put up the chess board, he came and sat down by the fire, and looked thoughtfully into the cavernous depths of the coals for a minute, and then said slowly, "Don't you think we ought to try and find that auntie of mine?"

"What can we do? I was speaking to Mr. Capon the other day. Of course he had the management of all the business; and if a lawyer cannot see what is to be done, I am afraid we are not likely to succeed whatever we may try."

Herbert sighed, but did not look convinced. "I don't believe in lawyers much for a case like that," he said, in a disparaging tone. "If auntie was an heiress now, and there was a great deal of property in the question, it would make all the difference. I daresay they would find out something more that could be done then. But, as it is,—well,—I am not satisfied, mother."

His mother laughed at the tone in which these words were spoken. "My dear, I daresay the Capons would do more if I pressed them, but it would cost a great deal of money, and we are not such very rich people, you know. Besides, we cannot tell whether these unknown relatives are at all desirable kind of people to become acquainted with. I have not seen or heard of my sister for years; and her husband I never liked—he was much beneath us; and these sort of people always seem to sink lower and lower."

"But I have often heard you say that money is not everything, mother," said Herbert, quickly.

"I was not thinking of money alone, but of other things as well—moral character—and the finer feeling that makes all the difference between a gentleman and common people. Now Henry Winn—the man your aunt married—belonged to common people; and there is little doubt she has sunk to his level by this time." And Mrs. Milner sighed, as she recalled the picture of her younger sister when she last saw her.

After a pause, the conversation was renewed by Herbert asking some further questions about his unknown aunt—whether his mother had ever heard that he had cousins, as well as an aunt.

"Oh, I have no doubt there is quite a swarm of them. But they would be very undesirable acquaintances for you, my boy; and so I do not see that any good could be done by trying to find them."

"But there is the money my father left for aunt, if ever she should need it!" exclaimed the boy. "I have been thinking of that since I sat down here. Suppose aunt should want it just now! We ought to make sure of this, mother. Of course they may have got rich; there is no telling what may have happened; and they may now be rich, vulgar people, like the Stones."

"Herbert, why will you persist in saying the Stones are vulgar?" said his mother, rather angrily.

The boy laughed. "Because it is so plain to everybody. They are always trying to show off something or other. My aunt cannot be worse than the Stones; and if she is your sister, she could not be half so bad," he said, kissing his mother.

This gentle flattery appeased her, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough.

Just before bed time he said, "Now, look here, mammy, I have one more spare day before I go back to school, and I'll give it to you to help with that bag, if you will promise not to bother Mrs. Ramsay about it. We will begin soon after breakfast in your morning-room. I know just how the thing ought to be done. You shall open the letters, and I will write down on a slip of paper the name of the person it came from, and just in a word or two what it was about, and then we will tie them up in packets, and give them over to Mrs. Ramsay. She may like to see them, by-and-bye, but there may be some business, she says, that ought to be attended to at once, so that some one must look over them."

Mrs. Milner would give no promise that night, but the weather helped Herbert in his plan, for the next morning proved to be a wet, windy day, that compelled them to stay indoors. And as soon as breakfast was over, the boy fetched the Gladstone-bag, and began turning out its contents upon the table.

"We shall forget the miserable weather now," he said, as he fetched a sheet of foolscap paper, and prepared to make his memoranda.

His mother sighed, but thought she might as well resign herself to the task, though she still felt that Mrs. Ramsay ought to do it herself.

Fortunately the letters all seemed short, and could be easily read, and so half a dozen memoranda were very quickly made of these. And then Mrs. Milner picked up one that seemed to require a great deal of reading before it could be understood.

"That seems to be a very long letter, mother," said Herbert, looking up from his task.

For a minute or two his mother still sat with the letter in her hand. But her son could see she was not reading it now, and he wondered what news it could contain that his mother was so affected by it.

"You read it, Herbert. I wonder how it came into Mr. Ramsay's hands. It is marked, 'To be enquired about.'"

She passed the letter to Herbert as she spoke, and he saw it was an official notification, that a scholarship gained by some girl had been resigned in favour of another, because of the death of the winner's father. There was some explanation about the girl having decided to stay at home and help her mother, but he saw nothing in this that should disturb his mother, and did not notice the name of the girl, in his hurry to read the business it contained.

"Do you think Mr. Ramsay intended to help this girl? What is her name?" and the boy turned to the letter once more.

"It is the name that struck me—Elsie Winn! My sister's name was Elsie, and I wondered whether this could be her daughter."

Once more the boy turned to the letter and read it through more carefully. When he came to the end, he said, "We must find these people, and see if it is my lost aunt. If it should be, they certainly need the money my father left for them; and they are not the kind of people you feared they might be."

"How do you know that, Herbert?"

"Why, mother, you see the letter from her governess says she is a very estimable girl, and deeply regrets having to give up the scholarship, but that she thinks it is her duty to do this, and stay at home and help her mother. Now, a girl who would do this is worth something! There is some grit in her, and she isn't likely to be vulgar, or at all a common sort of girl."

"My dear boy, how you do jump to conclusions! I send you to Mrs. Ramsay with a polite message, and you bring me back a bag of correspondence to look over. Now, this letter tells of a girl giving up a scholarship to stay at home with her mother, and you jump to the conclusion that she is a little paragon of perfection!"

"No, no, mother, I did not say that; I mean that a girl who will give up a good chance in life—as this probably was to her—just to stay at home and help her mother, is not a common, vulgar girl, but has the making of a lady in her."

"Herbert, Herbert," said his mother, smiling.

"You forget, mother, her mother is your sister, very likely; so why shouldn't she be a lady? Now, what are you going to do?" he asked, the next minute.

"Do! What do you mean? Are we not going to look through this bag?"

"But—but—mother, you will surely write a letter to the governess of this school, and ask her to tell you where this Elsie Winn lives. You can find out easily enough that way whether her mother is my lost aunt. And, of course, they will be very glad of the money that is waiting for them."

His mother smiled at his eagerness. "I will write to Capon by-and-bye, and ask him to make enquiries about these people, as this may prove to be a clue."

"Oh, mother! And I shall be away at school before you can hear anything," he said, impatiently.

"My dear boy, suppose these people should be total strangers, what good could be done? No, no, we must wait and let Mr. Capon write, or send a messenger, to find out what he can about these people; and then, of course, if it should be your aunt, why, I will go and see her."

"Thank you, mother. I really should like to feel that I have a cousin of some sort; and this Elsie I could be proud of, because it was a plucky thing to give up a scholarship after she had won it, and I should like to feel that I had a cousin like that."

Mrs. Milner thought the matter was disposed of when she had given this promise; but her son fetched writing materials at once, that she might send to the lawyer without delay. For he was anxious to have some further tidings of this Elsie Winn, nearly a year having passed since the letter was written; and there was no telling what might have happened during that time, especially as her father had died, and he could not have been a wealthy man, or his daughter would not have worked for a scholarship to enable her to go to a higher grade school. And it seemed likely that his aunt would have to work for herself and her children now, as this girl had to stay at home and help.

These thoughts made him more impatient; and Mrs. Milner had to yield to his entreaties, and write the letter to her lawyer at once, asking him to make enquiries about this family through the schoolmistress who had sent this letter.

While his mother wrote the letter, Herbert copied the address of the school, that he might take it with him when he went away; for if he did not hear soon the result of Mr. Capon's enquiries, he resolved to write himself, and say that he believed these people were relatives. Mr. Capon would not do this, he felt sure; and it was very likely that these enquiries would be like the other he had made. He had no faith in Mr. Capon, and what he was likely to do, because it was only about a hundred pounds that had been left for his aunt, and such a small sum as that would not be worth their great lawyer making a fuss about.

He saw that Mr. Capon's letter was sent to the post; and he half hoped that some sort of answer would come before he went away the next day. They got through their task of looking over Mr. Ramsay's papers, many of which proved to be circulars and begging letters of various sorts. For Mr. Ramsay, having no children of his own, was known to be a charitable gentleman; and this was probably why the letter from the school had been sent to him.

It might be that he had enquired, and helped this girl and her mother; but he hoped he had not, if it should prove that it was his very own cousin. The rest of the papers were soon disposed of, no others proving to be of any interest to anybody; and after tea, Herbert took the bag and his memoranda back to Mrs. Ramsay. But he said nothing of the letter they had found, which proved to be of so much interest to themselves.

Mrs. Milner said she would talk the matter over with her old friend when they met, and Herbert had better not say anything about it.

The next day the lad went back to school; and though the-meeting again with old school-fellows, after the holidays, was pleasant enough, he did not forget Elsie Winn and her scholarship: for in the very first letter he wrote home, he asked if his mother had heard from Mr. Capon, and begged her to tell him as soon as ever she had any news from the lawyer.

[CHAPTER XIII.]

ENQUIRIES.

HERBERT MILNER kept to his resolution of making enquiries on his own account, if those made by Mr. Capon did not prove satisfactory.

A week after he returned to school, he received a letter from his mother, telling him that Mr. Capon had not only written, but sent a messenger to enquire about the girl named Elsie Winn. But he found that they had moved away from the neighbourhood, and no one seemed to know where they had gone, or cared to talk about them.

"Let this satisfy you now, my dear boy," wrote his mother in conclusion. "We have done what we could to find your aunt, and failed. We have done our duty, and we can do no more."

But Herbert was by no means satisfied that no more could be learned of his missing relatives; and so, after he had read this letter, he decided to write himself to the schoolmistress. And his letter caused no small surprise to the lady who knew Elsie and her mother so well. It was handed to her just as she was leaving school with a friend one day; and she sat down at once to know who had written to her in such a round schoolboy hand.

"Dear Madam,—I think I have a cousin, and her name would very likely be Elsie Winn; but I have never seen her, and we don't know where to find her. You used to have a girl in your school of that name, and she took a scholarship. That is how we heard about her; but I should like to know some more, for I have neither brother nor sister; but I hope Elsie Winn is my cousin, fox I think she did a plucky thing to give up that scholarship to help her mother. I think her mother and my mother are sisters, and we want to find her."

The lady smiled as she read the letter, and handed it to her friend.

"This is from a boy, I have no doubt; but it is rather strange that as soon as Mrs. Winn has moved away from the neighbourhood, there should be these enquiries about her. There was a man here, you know, a day or two ago, asking if I knew where the Winns lived."

"Poor things! I am sorry for them, for I quite believed that man came about some little debt they may have owed. I wonder how much it was, for I know it will be a dreadful worry to Elsie, and her mother too. If I could only find out, I would pay it and send them the receipt, and then they would not be bothered about it again."

"Oh, but this has nothing to do with it," said her friend, quickly. "I am sure it was a boy that wrote this; and he would not be likely to tell this story about a cousin if it was not true."

"Well, I don't know where they have gone to live, and I won't know if I can help it; and then I can tell people truly enough that 'I don't know.' I am sure of this, that if Mrs. Winn has got into debt, it has been through Tom having the scarlet fever, and that she could not help it; and as for helping people to find her, to worry her about it, I will not, whoever they may be!"

Elsie's governess spoke very firmly, and looked at her friend as she did so, as if mutely asking if she was going to betray this unfortunate family.

"I don't think this is about a debt," said the lady, when she had read Herbert's letter through a second time. "I think this is a genuine schoolboy letter. But still I should like to find out a little about the writer before I answer it, and I can do so, I think; for I have a cousin living at Firdale, and he shall find out who lives at the Old Manor House. It sounds all right, the 'Old Manor House,' but still there is no telling. I can soon learn where Mrs. Winn has gone, if we should think it wise to tell this boy where she may be found."

"Don't tell me the address, please," said the other, "for I want to be able to say, 'I don't know,' if we have any more visitors like the last, for I did not like his manner at all."

A day or two later a letter came to Miss Russell, saying that the Old Manor House, Firdale, was a very select gentleman's boarding-school; which so far relieved the teacher's fears, that it was agreed that Miss Russell should write and tell Herbert where a letter would find Mrs. Winn. It also added the information that it was feared she might be in straightened circumstances, as her son had caught scarlet fever a few months after his father's death, and that had compelled them to remove to another neighbourhood; and she enclosed the address which she had received from an intimate friend of Mrs. Winn's.

"There, I should think that would do," said Miss Russell, as she read over what she had written. "You see I have told him I am writing for you, as you don't know her address."

"No, it will be better altogether for me not to know it," said Elsie's former governess. "People are less likely to come to you for it, and I am sadly afraid the poor things will go down hill very fast through that boy catching the fever."

The lady said "that boy" as though she would like to shake him, for everybody knew it was through Tom's disobedience that his mother had lost her business, and been obliged to go away.

"But if this is really a cousin who writes, there may be better times in, store for the poor woman," said Miss Russell. However, her friend could not feel quite sure that they had not done more harm than good by replying to the schoolboy's letter.

Meanwhile Herbert Milner was delighted at the result of his application to the school, when, after waiting for a week, he received Miss Russell's letter. He did not know how dubious the ladies had been about writing to him; but he felt sure, from the wording of the letter, that this Mrs. Winn, whoever she might be, greatly needed help just now. And his mother, herself a widow, was well provided for, and therefore would be able to help and sympathise with Mrs. Winn. And if it should prove to be her long lost sister, how glad she would be to help her, and the brave girl who had given up the scholarship a year before.

This was how Herbert reasoned, as he sat down and wrote a rather incoherent letter to his mother, telling her he had written to the schoolmistress, and asked for Elsie Winn's address, and how they had sent it to him, though Capon's man could not find out anything about the people.

Now it must be confessed that Mrs. Milner was not too well pleased when she received her son's letter, vaunting his cleverness over "Capon's man." She was not without natural affection, and she often wished in a vague way for the little sister she had not seen for so long; but she was also a fashionable lady, and she was afraid now that she might feel ashamed to own the relationship with Elsie among the people she was now constantly meeting.

She wanted to do her duty, as she told herself, and Herbert too. But having done "all that people could expect of her—" having sent Capon's man in search of her lost sister—she thought she might settle down and make herself comfortable about the matter. But she did not feel really and truly sorry that the enquiries had failed, as Herbert did, but she was rather relieved, especially when Mrs. Stone called upon her, and talked about her new carriage, and diamonds, and the court that was paid to her husband by noblemen and other great people.

She was, as Herbert said, decidedly vulgar; but then she was also enormously rich, and Mrs. Milner shivered at the thought of letting Mrs. Stone know that she had poor relations; so poor, that their children went to a board school!

The lawyer's report was therefore a relief, rather than a disappointment to her, when she read that a messenger had been sent to the school named in her letter, and had ascertained that children bearing the name of Winn used to attend the school, but that they had now removed to another neighbourhood, and left no address behind them.

"It is possible these people went away in debt," added the lawyer.

Mrs. Milner was an honourable woman, and proud, too, and that her sister should be spoken of as having left a neighbourhood because she would not pay her debts, was very painful to her feelings; and she sat down at once and wrote a short note, saying that from the information he had gained, she felt sure this Mrs. Winn was not her sister, and that it was not necessary to pursue the enquiry any further. She had done her duty, and should let the matter drop for the future.

This was how she had written to Mr. Capon, and then shortly afterwards came Herbert's letter, saying he had been making independent enquiry, and had found his aunt's address, and begged her to go and see her, and not send Capon's man again.

But it happened that Mrs. Milner had a bad cold just then; and so she made the most of this, and told Herbert that it would be quite impossible for her to travel so far, until there was a change in the weather; and as they were now in the autumn season of the year, this meant a postponement for some months at least.

She did not let Herbert know how angry she really felt at his having written to the school about these people. He was her only son, and had always had a good deal of his own way in most things that concerned his own comfort and pleasure; and if this matter had been for his own benefit to find out his lost aunt, she could have understood and excused it. But this anxiety to find out a person who might prove to be a source of embarrassment and vexation to them, if ever she was found, she could not understand; and she was annoyed that he should be so persistent in a matter which he must know by this time was not pleasing to her.

Still, as far as she could, she kept these thoughts and feelings out of the letter she wrote to him, merely saying she could not take such a journey in her present state of health, and while the weather was so cold and unsettled. She said once more that she had done all that could be required of her, to try and find her sister, and if anything more was to be done, it must wait until she is in better health, and could take up the enquiry personally.

This long letter was anything but pleasant reading for Herbert, who was impatient to hear more about his only relatives,—especially his cousin Elsie, whom he had began to idealise in a fashion that would greatly have surprised that modest little maiden.

All sorts of conjectures and fears pressed upon his thoughts whenever he had a minute to himself. Suppose they should move to some other place, and he should lose trace of them again! Suppose his aunt should fall ill, and be unable to work for her children! In short, he supposed all sorts of contingencies, likely and unlikely, to befall Mrs. Winn, before the winter was over, and his mother able to go in search of her.

When he wrote to his mother again, he suggested some of these as very real dangers, that the money left by his father for her benefit might easily avert. If they could only make sure that this Mrs. Winn, the widow, and mother of the scholarship girl, was his aunt Elsie, then some of the money at least might be sent on to her.

This letter really hurt his mother's feelings, for he said nothing whatever about her bad cold, but the whole letter was about this missing aunt, and what he deemed the necessity of finding her without delay. And she wrote and told him he seemed to be forgetting his duty to his mother, in his anxiety to befriend strangers, who might not thank him for the trouble he had taken when they were found.

Herbert loved his mother dearly, and the thought that she was hurt at his seeming want of feeling hurt him in turn. And he wrote, as soon as he could, a very penitent letter, but could not help adding a postscript, begging she would write, if she could not go, to the address he had sent to her, for there was no telling what might happen if they had to wait until the spring before any further enquiries were made.

To this Mrs. Milner replied that she would not fail to do her duty; and she would consider whether she would send to Mr. Capon again, if she could not go herself.

This letter satisfied Herbert for the time; and just then he had to give more attention to his lessons, and less thought to his unknown aunt, for he had fallen into arrears with some of his exercises; and if he was to take home a prize at Christmas, he would have to apply himself with a good deal more energy to the work in hand, or his mother would suffer another disappointment when the holidays arrived—and he loved her too dearly to do this, if it could possibly be avoided.

So the boy turned to his books once more, and for a week or two no one had reason to complain of his want of application. He won extra marks for the care and neatness with which his exercises were written and lessons prepared. But he was still hoping that each letter from his mother would tell him that Mr. Capon had sent his messenger again in search of Mrs. Winn. No such news, however, came.

He had given up mentioning the matter, as his mother had desired him, and Mrs. Milner did the same, hoping by that means to make Herbert forget all about it. For she saw in the future all sorts of difficulties and complications, and she wanted time to settle how these could be met and overcome, before she took any further step towards seeking these poor relations.

This was what she told herself, and it satisfied her conscience for the time being. But, not feeling sure that Herbert would feel satisfied, she did not mention the matter to him at all. On the other hand, she carefully abstained from all mention of his supposed aunt. She enlarged a good deal upon her continued weakness from the cold, and the social engagements that pressed upon, and took up so much of her time; and also how busy she was, making garments for the poor old people in the almhouses. With all these things to do, she could hardly find time to write his letters (she told him); and this she thought ought to satisfy him, that she had no time to take a long journey just now, or even to worry about Mr. Capon sending a messenger.

She did not for one moment suppose that her sister was in any great need. Of course she had got used to living in a mean little house, on straitened means, when she married; and she did not suppose she was much worse off now she was a widow. Mrs. Milner honestly thought this, and that next spring would do just as well to make enquiries about her, as to make a fuss just now.

So Herbert looked in vain for news of this aunt; and Mrs. Milner went on making garments for strangers, never dreaming that she was neglecting her duty while she did so—that her true duty was to search for her sister, and befriend her. This was the duty that lay nearest to her, and no kindness to strangers could atone for the neglect of this.

[CHAPTER XIV.]

EARNEST ENDEAVOURS.

WHEN Tom told his mother the news brought by Jack, and that Mr. Murray and the clergyman had both agreed that he might try for this scholarship, she was quite overcome. For she had begun to blame herself very bitterly for moving so hastily, and thus depriving her children of educational advantages she had scarcely thought of at their true value, until she came here and found the difference in the schools.

Tom had continued his attendance after the fight with Bill Crane, but she felt sure it was rather to please her than from any real interest he took in his work there.

In this, however, she was mistaken. Tom did not say anything about it at home, but the fight with the redoubtable Bill had certainly improved his position with his school-mates. They talked of him among themselves as a "jolly plucky chap," though he did come from "Lunnon," where no boy was supposed to know how to fight. In school, this opinion of him gradually leavened and altered their behaviour towards him, and they were ready to forgive his fluent reading and better writing than their own, in consideration of his being able to stand up to the village bully, of whom every boy had been secretly afraid until Tom braved him.

Without knowing exactly why or how it had come about, Tom found his position at school far more tolerable as time went on than it was at first; and he was gradually becoming oblivious of the noise that disturbed him so much at first. So that when he told his mother of the scholarship plan, he made no complaint about not being able to learn lessons in such a school.

Mrs. Winn had burst into tears when she first heard the wonderful news, and that greatly disconcerted Tom.

"Don't cry, mother, don't cry," he said, putting his arm round her neck and kissing her. "I really do mean to work hard this time, and I daresay Mr. Murray will help me a bit extra, if he sees I'm in downright earnest, for I think he was rather pleased that we went to ask him about it, and he likes Elsie, I know."

"Yes, yes, dear, you will try now, I am sure," said the widow, trying to smile at Tom through her tears. "I am afraid it will be harder work for you this time, than if you had kept steadily on under Mr. Potter; but we must not mind that. And Elsie and I will do all we can to help you."

"Yes, mother, don't be afraid, will you? I really will, for your sake, work hard now. Elsie has got the books you bought for her when she was swatting up for her exam., and I daresay they will help me. I'll take them to school on Monday morning, and ask Mr. Murray to set me some extra lessons in grammar and geography. Now, come and see Jack, mother, before he goes; he is having a bit of bread and cheese before he starts."

Mrs. Winn thanked the boy who was so anxious to make amends for the mischief he had caused a few months before, and Jack started home on his wonderful bicycle, feeling happier than he had for many months past.

"I shall come again soon," he said, as he mounted his iron horse and rode away in the warm dusk of the evening.

"Yes, do," called Tom, Elsie, and little Bobbie, in one breath; and then they went in to talk over once more the alteration in Tom's prospects.

"I will call and see Mr. Murray on Monday," said the widow. And then she heaved a sigh, for she knew it would be quite out of her power to pay for extra lessons for Tom, and she must explain this to the schoolmaster at once, though it should betray her poverty in a fashion that was very painful to her.

There was, however, no help for it, and this news had brought her some consolation that neither of her children could understand, for they did not know how bitterly she had been blaming herself for coming here. But now if it should prove that Tom would be eligible for this scholarship, then her self-reproaches would lose half their sting, and she would feel that for Tom, at least, the move had brought nothing but good.

The country air agreed with all the children, and they were growing strong and vigorous as well as Tom, who seemed to be better than he had ever been in his life before. But it was the want of work that troubled her.

Mrs. Perceval was very pleased with the way she had made her girl's dresses, and had since given her two of her own to do, with which she was so fully satisfied, that she promised to recommend her to other friends.

"But I am only the doctor's wife, you know," she said, laughingly, "and not being a fashionable lady, some of them may think I am not a competent judge of what is the latest thing in dresses."

She did not forget her promise, but most of the ladies she spoke to on Mrs. Winn's behalf always sent their dresses to be made in London, and quite looked down upon a village dressmaker, though she had just come from London, and could easily get the latest fashions and patterns from there.

Some of them recommended their servants to try the new dressmaker who had come to live in Fairfield, and she got a few servant's and children's dresses to make; but her business did not increase as time wore on, as she hoped it would, and sometimes a whole week passed and she would not earn a penny.