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Title: Worthy of his name

Author: Eglanton Thorne

Release date: April 5, 2024 [eBook #73340]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1892


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORTHY OF HIS NAME ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration]



                          WORTHY OF HIS NAME


                                 BY

                          EGLANTON THORNE

    AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE," ETC.



                         "Let no man predicate
               That aught the name of gentleness should have,
                    Even in a king's estate,
               Except the heart there be a gentleman's."
                                                 GUIDO GUINICELLI



                              LONDON
                    THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
           56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
                        AND 164, PICCADILLY



Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.



                            CONTENTS.


CHAP.

    I. THE NEW LODGER

   II. GUS' REAL NAME

  III. GUS MAKES A PROMISE

   IV. THE LODGER LEAVES

    V. HOW THE NEIGHBOURS SYMPATHISED

   VI. GUS WINS A NAME

  VII. A CHIVALROUS EXPLOIT

 VIII. GUS' NEW FRIENDS

   IX. AT SUNDAY SCHOOL

    X. GUS SEES HIS TEACHER AGAIN

   XI. LUCAS' "JOB"

  XII. A GAME OF "HIDE-AND-SEEK"

 XIII. AN INNOCENT BURGLAR

  XIV. GOOD-BYE TO LAVENDER TERRACE

   XV. RAYLEIGH

  XVI. GUS BEGINS TO WORK FOR HIMSELF

 XVII. THE MILL-HANDS "STRIKE"

XVIII. GUS HAS HIS REVENGE

  XIX. A REVELATION

   XX. NO LONGER A HUMAN WAIF

  XXI. DEEDS AND THEIR FRUIT

 XXII. CONCLUSION



                             WORTHY OF HIS NAME.

CHAPTER I.

THE NEW LODGER.

"SO you like your new lodger, Sally Dent?"

"Ay, he's a gentleman, he is."

"A gentleman! That means that he pays you reg'lar, I s'pose?"

"It means a good sight more than that, though it's true he give me a
fortnight's rent in advance, and said I shouldn't never be a loser by
he, for he'd take 'isself off when he'd no money to pay me. I tell you,
he's a real gentleman."

"That's a good 'un!" laughed a man, who stood mending a fence near
enough to the women to hear what they said. "Do you think him so,
because he came home as drunk as a lord last night? A pretty gentleman!
But maybe you wasn't aware of that fact."

"Wasn't I? There ain't much 'appens in my 'ouse that I ain't aware on.
But if he was drunk, he be'aved 'isself like a gentleman, and didn't
make no noise. We've all our little weaknesses, and I 'opes I knows how
to make allowance."

Sally Dent's appearance accorded with her tolerant tone. She was a
tall, fine woman, who might have been comely had she taken more care
of her person. She had an abundance of light wavy hair, but its rough,
dishevelled condition robbed it of all beauty. The expression of her
round fat face was too easy by far, and its ruddy hue suggested that
she too might have her "little weakness," and that a fellow-feeling
made her so "wondrous kind" towards her lodger's infirmity. Her dirty,
torn gown, the grimy doorstep on which she stood, the blackened passage
beyond, the state of the child clutching at her gown as he poised
himself on his unsteady feet, all bore witness to a life that was a
careless drifting on the currents of inclination.

"He's got a boy, ain't he?" asked her neighbour, a gaunt, angular
female, who looked to have a temper, and altogether more character than
the indolent Sally.

"Yon's the boy," returned Sally, pointing across the road.

Mrs. Minn glanced in the direction indicated. The houses of Lavender
Terrace—why Lavender Terrace it would be hard to say; the purity
and fragrance which we associate with the name of the old-fashioned
country flower were not characteristics of the foul, narrow lane—faced
a line of railway, and trains were continually passing on the other
side of the high, tarred fence. At one spot a heap of refuse—broken
earthenware, battered kettles, and such old shoes as even the dwellers
in Lavender Terrace were forced to discard—was banked against the fence.

On the top of this heap, attaining a still greater elevation by
balancing himself by one foot upon an upturned flower-pot, stood the
boy, absorbed in watching the passing trains. He was a small, slight
boy, looking only eight, though two years older. His face was turned
from the women, and the fact concerning him most evident to the eye of
the observer was the very dilapidated state of his garments. So ragged
were they, that it was a matter of wonder how they held together.

As Sally's neighbour eyed the little lad, she gave a short laugh.

"He looks like a gentleman's son, don't he now? He has no mother, I
s'pose?"

"She's dead, I believe. Ay, you may laugh, Mrs. Minn; but there's
gentlefolks as come down in the world, and, if I'm not mistaken, this
lodger of mine comes of gentlefolk. You should see the Bible he has in
his room, one with gilt edges and lined with silk, like the gentry use.
I ought to know, for I've lived in good service and seen what's what.
And I can tell you he's a scholard, for one day I wanted a letter wrote
to my old mistress, and I made so bold as to ask him to do it for me,
and you may believe me, he wrote such a letter as a gentleman might
'a'wrote. She noticed it, she did, and asked me who'd wrote it."

"The more shame to him to have fallen so low," said the carpenter,
hammering vigorously. "There's some excuse for us poor chaps, who have
had a hard struggle all our days, if we take a drop too much to cheer
us sometimes; but a man who has had eddication, and all the advantages
money can give, ought to be ashamed of hisself if he can't behave as he
should. I know if I had had such chances—"

But what he would have done under more fortunate circumstances remained
untold, for at that moment Mrs. Dent's lodger made his appearance. He
came round the sharp bend by which the lane turned from the main road,
a man above the middle height, but with stooping shoulders and feeble
frame. His clothes were deplorably shabby, but they looked the shabbier
for their cut and style, which revealed the skill of a high-class
tailor. His face was sharp and wan, but it had a refinement of feature
which was not due merely to the wasting of disease. The deep-seated
anguish that looked out of his eyes, the settled bitterness expressed
by the drooping corners of the delicate mouth, would have struck pain
to the heart of a sensitive observer.

Mrs. Minn was hardly such a one, but she felt a novel sensation of
pity, as with instinctive courtesy he stepped from the path to make
room for her. In spite of his depressed, crushed air, he walked and
bore himself in a different fashion from any other man living at
Lavender Terrace. It was the first time he had been seen abroad in
daylight since he came to Mrs. Dent's, and the neighbours observed him
curiously.

"Gus, I want you," he called to his son, halting for a moment ere he
turned into the house. The voice was weak and hoarse; but it had some
quality other than weakness or hoarseness, which gave it an unusual
sound to the ears of the listeners.

The boy sprang down from the rubbish heap and hastened after his
father. Perhaps the sight of the parcel wrapped in newspaper which his
father carried under his arm quickened his steps. Gus was pale, and
his face showed a faint reflex of the melancholy expression stamped
upon his father's; but it had the brightness which comes of a liberal
application of soap and water. If he was one of the most ragged boys
in the lane, he was also one of the cleanest. He looked up into Mrs.
Minn's face as he passed her. His clear, frank blue eyes, his sweet,
gentle expression affected her strangely.

"God bless him! He's a pretty boy," she said, though she was not wont
to pray God to bless her own children.

Sally Dent ventured on no familiar greeting as her lodger entered the
house. There was something about the silent, melancholy man that held
her in awe.

"So that's your lodger," said Mrs. Minn, lowering her voice. "But how
ill he looks! I never saw any one so ghastly. You mark my words, Sally
Dent, he won't be your lodger long."



CHAPTER II.

GUS' REAL NAME.

GUS followed his father into the small back room which was their
home. It was a comfortless room, with an unmade bed in one corner and
a small table in the middle, on which was a penny bottle of ink, a
couple of quill pens, and a dingy remnant of blotting-paper. It also
contained two rickety chairs and a large, old-fashioned trunk, on the
top of which lay about a score of books, most of them in a more or less
shabby condition. The few poor articles of furniture were the property
of Sally Dent; only the trunk, the books, and the writing materials
belonged to her lodger.

The room was small, but it was not close. The window, grey with dust,
was open at top and bottom, letting in the fresh, soft air of the fair
May day. Lavender Terrace was not shut in from the winds of heaven.
Before it ran the railway, and behind lay stretch of waste ground,
around which new houses were rising. It was neither in London nor in
the country, but one of those dreary new neighbourhoods to be found
on the skirts of the metropolis which have lost their rural charm ere
yet they have gained the advantages and respectability of a suburban
locality. There were fields still at Glensford, and through one of them
a stream made its way; but its banks were littered with rubbish, and
its waters choked and befouled by the refuse cast into them. There were
generally gipsy carts to be seen in these fields, and gipsy children
with bare feet and tangled locks disporting themselves by the stream.

Gus watched his father silently, but with eager eyes, as he unrolled
the paper parcel, and brought to view a loaf of bread and some slices
of cooked ham. Then, without words, the boy went to a small cupboard by
the fireplace, brought out the remnant of linen which did service as a
tablecloth, with plates, knives and forks, and as rapidly as possible
made the few simple preparations for their meal. The last of these was
to place before his father a tall black bottle and a tumbler.

It was now two o'clock, and this was the first meal of the day; yet ere
he attacked the food, for which he had so keen an appetite, the boy
bent his head and repeated a brief grace. It was the habit in which he
had been reared, and its omission would have drawn on him a reprimand
from his father.

The boy ate hungrily, but a few mouthfuls seemed to content his father.
He laid down his knife and fork, mixed himself a tumblerful of spirit
and water, and sat slowly sipping it, and watching his boy the while
with his hopeless, melancholy eyes.

"Gus," he said suddenly, "what is your name?"

"Gus Rew," answered the boy, with a smile. His spirits were rising as
he took the sorely needed food, and he fancied that his father's mood
was also waxing cheerful.

"No, that is not your name," was the unexpected reply.

Gus looked at his father with a shrewd, discerning glance. He was
taking but a moderate draught; he never drank deeply so early in
the day. Had it been night, Gus would have wondered at no strange,
inexplicable words that might fall from his lips; but he did wonder now.

"What do you mean, father?" he asked.

"The name by which the people here know us is not our real name. I
called myself Devereux once when we lived in another part, but people
soon cut it down to Rew, and I let it be so. Shall I tell you your
right name, Gus?"

"Yes," said the boy, forgetting to eat in his astonishment.

"Augustus Devereux Carruthers."

"My!" exclaimed Gus, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "That's a
good long one."

"It is your name, however. Can you remember it?"

"I don't know as I can," replied Gus.

"Then I'll write it down for you. It may be of importance to you some
day that you should know your right name. But mind, boy, you are to
keep it to yourself. Not a word to any one about it unless I give you
leave."

Gus nodded.

"Now, if you've finished, clear the table and get me pen and ink."

The boy obeyed.

With a hand that trembled visibly, the hand of one who habitually drank
to excess, but which yet resembled the white, well-kept hand of a
gentleman, Gus' father wrote his name on a slip of paper.

"There it is," he said, laying down the pen; "there it is—the name of a
gentleman. Gus, do you know that you are a gentleman by birth?"

"A gentleman!" repeated Gus, more astonished than ever.

"Yes; do you know what a gentleman is?"

"A swell," said the boy.

"I wish you would not use such expressions!" cried his father, with
a frown. "But there, what else can I expect? How should you know any
better? I suppose you think a gentleman is just a man who wears good
clothes and has plenty to eat and drink?"

"Yes," said Gus.

"Well, then, let me tell you that money and fine clothes have nothing
to do with being a gentleman. A gentleman is one who is brave, who
speaks the truth, who is honest and faithful—"

He checked himself abruptly. His eye had fallen on the black bottle.
His head drooped, his voice faltered as he went on to say, "I was a
gentleman once, Gus, and your mother was a lady. Ay, a true lady she
was, though she served in a shop. Mind you, boy, it's not the kind of
work one does that makes of a man a gentleman, or of a woman a lady;
it's the way in which the work is done that makes all the difference."

"If you were a gentleman once, father," asked the boy eagerly, "how was
it that—?" His eyes falling on his parent's shabby, threadbare garments
completed the question.

"You may well ask," returned his father in a tone of intense
bitterness. "Gus, there are those who would tell you that that unmade
me," he pointed as he spoke to the black bottle; "but, lad, that is
not the truth. I was undone by one who tempted me, betrayed me, made a
very cat's paw of me to serve his own ends, and then turned against me
and denounced me. Ah! there are such men in the world—men who do the
fiend's work, who drag others down to ruin, whilst they stand proud and
firm. And he goes softly; he is honoured and courted, whilst I—Heaven
help me!"

The last words escaped as a cry of pain. The man's face had grown
deadly pale; it was contorted by the anguish that was bringing out
great beads of perspiration on his brow. His hands clutched his breast;
he drew each breath in agony. With a cry, Gus rushed to the door
to summon help; but a gesture from his father stayed him. In a few
moments, the paroxysm of pain was past. The man's hands relaxed their
grasp, his breath came more freely, his pallor grew less deathlike. He
made a reassuring sign to the boy, and even tried to smile. Gus had
seen him suffer thus before, but never had he had so severe an attack.

As he recovered strength the man's eyes fell on the slip of paper and
the name written on it.

"We must find a safe place for this," he said. "Bring me the Bible,
Gus."

It lay on the top of the trunk, a square Oxford Bible, bearing date
1828, bound in dark leather, richly embossed. The thick boards were
lined with crimson silk, and fastened with handsome clasps. Gus' father
took the book into his hand with reverent touch. He opened it, and with
his penknife lightly lifted the silken lining from one side, pushed the
slip of paper within, then, wetting the silk slightly, pressed it again
into its place.

"There," he said, "that will adhere, and no one will know there is
anything beneath. But you will know; you must remember. Gus, promise
me, poor though you are, you will try to be a gentleman."

"Yes, I'll try, father."

"And you'll never touch that?" waving his hand towards the black
bottle. "You've told me before that you will never taste strong drink,
but I want to hear you say it again."

"I will never take it, father."

"Say, 'So help me God!'"

"So help me God!"

A look of relief came to the father's haggard face. He poured out a
little more of the spirit, drank it hastily, then pushing bottle and
glass from him, he said—

"Now put that away, Gus, and bring me your lessons."

"Have you no work to do, father?" asked the boy, with brightening face.

"Not at present. I am to call for it at six o'clock, so I have plenty
of time to hear you."



CHAPTER III.

GUS MAKES A PROMISE.

THE life of Augustus Devereux Carruthers grew no easier as the days
went on. Surely no child of gentle birth had ever so rough a bringing
up, or so early made acquaintance with the darker phases of life. His
father had sunk lower and lower, benumbing his faculties by strong
drink, till even the drudgery of copying for law-stationers was
well-nigh beyond his weakened capacity.

At length that failed, and when he came to Glensford with his boy, he
was trusting for their maintenance to such chance jobs as might come to
the hand of a forlorn man, broken-down alike in health and fortune. By
the sale of some of his books, he had obtained the sum that he had paid
in advance to Sally Dent—the only means by which he could be sure that
the money would not find its way across the counter of the large and
flourishing public-house which stood at the corner of the green.

Gus knew often what it was to miss a meal in these days; often he went
supperless to bed, where he slept soundly in spite of hunger, till his
father roused him by stumbling into the room about midnight; for the
craving for strong drink was taking a stronger and stronger hold upon
the unhappy man. He would at any time go without food that Gus might
have the last crust in the cupboard; but as long as he could get the
money for it, drink he must have. So the few poor possessions contained
in the old trunk found their way one after another to the pawnshop,
till almost everything of value was gone.

Much as he suffered, Gus never told himself that he had a bad father.
It was such a common thing at Lavender Terrace, and other places where
he had lived, for fathers, and even mothers, to drink and neglect their
children, that Gus accepted the fact quite philosophically. To have a
drunken father was to him only such a calamity as to have a lame father
or a blind father would have been. It was a thing that could not be
helped, and must be endured. But one truth concerning the matter had
been grasped by Gus. His father frequently told him that if he never
began to drink, he would never want to drink; and Gus was resolved that
he would not begin such an undesirable habit.

One day, when they had been in Sally Dent's house for about a month,
and things were at a very low ebb with her lodger, Gus was called
by his father to accompany him to another part of London, where an
election was about to take place, and there was a chance of employment
in circulating bills from house to house. Gus came willingly. He liked
nothing better than to be with his father, who, even in his worst
hours, never struck or ill-used him.

They had a long and weary walk ere they arrived at the place they
sought. The committee rooms were easily found. The house was made
conspicuous from a distance by the flags and banners which waved about
it, as well as by the crowd of ill-clad, wretched-looking men gathered
before the door.

"We come too late, I fear," said Gus' father despondently, as they
halted on the outskirts of the crowd. Suddenly his eye caught a placard
raised high above the heads of the people. Gus saw a quick change pass
over his father's face. It grew ashy white, his eyes gleamed fiercely,
his hands were clenched. In terror the boy imagined that a paroxysm of
pain had seized his father; but it was not so. His eyes were riveted on
the name of the candidate.

"Philip Darnell," he murmured; "that man! What does it mean?" Then
eagerly, he grasped the arm of a man who stood near him: "Tell me—whose
election is this? I do not understand."

"Whose election? Who is the candidate, do you mean? Why, Philip
Darnell. Ah, you had not heard? Sir Robert Leicester has retired, and
Philip Darnell has just been nominated."

"That man! I'm glad I know. Serve him! I'd sooner die!"

"Would you? Dying's not so easy, let me tell you," returned the other,
eyeing him curiously. "I know he ain't extra, this Philip Darnell, if
all folks say of him is true; but what of that? What does it matter to
us as long as he pays us our money?"

But the man known as Rew recoiled from him as he spoke. The words
sounded hideous in his ears. What did it matter, indeed? "I'd rather
die!" he muttered again, and made his way hastily out of the crowd.

"You'd better go to Arthur Brown; he's the people's candidate!" shouted
the man to whom Rew had spoken, and then touched his forehead, and
winked at a neighbour, intending to convey his belief that the man who
refused to serve Philip Darnell was half-crazed.

Gus was much perplexed. He watched his father anxiously, as retiring
a little from the crowd, he leaned exhausted against some palings and
wiped his brow.

Suddenly, with clatter and commotion, a handsome carriage dashed into
the street. It was drawn by a pair of fine bay horses, decorated with
rosettes of blue ribbon. Several gentlemen were seated in it, one,
a dark man, with florid face and beaming smile. Gus' father started
forward excitedly.

"There he is!" he cried. "There is Philip Darnell. Look, Gus, look;
there is the man who worked your father's ruin! See, he rides in his
carriage, men gather about him, and I—look what he has made of me!"

"Father, what did he do?" cried Gus, bewildered.

"Do! Don't ask me. I tell you, if there were justice in this world,
that man would stand beside me, degraded as I am. Look at him, Gus!
Look, that you may know him again!" And he pointed to where Philip
Darnell had alighted in the midst of the crowd, and was shaking hands
ostentatiously with every one who came forward. "Remember that to that
man you owe it that you have been brought up in rags and misery; and if
ever you have the chance, requite him for the wrong he has done you and
me. Promise me, Gus, that if ever in coming years it is in your power,
you will have revenge on him. Promise, boy, I say."

"I promise," said Gus, urged by his father's passionate tones. But as
he said the words, he was amused to think how unlikely it was that a
poor ragged little boy such as he was should ever have it in his power
to inflict a punishment on the rich, grand man.

The gentlemen passed into the house, the eager crowd about the door
gradually dispersed; but Gus' father still stood helplessly clinging to
the palings. His face was pale to ghastliness; he was trembling with
excitement.

"What will you do, father?" Gus asked. "Will you go to the other place?"

"I can go nowhere," his father replied. "We must get home, Gus; that is
all we can do now."

At that moment, a little pony chaise came down the street, driven by
a young girl of about sixteen. Seated bolt upright beside her was a
lady considerably older, whose face wore a nervous, anxious expression.
Possibly the pretty grey pony held political opinions of another order
to those of Mr. Philip Darnell; but whatever the cause, the sight of
a small hand-cart on which were mounted several huge blue-and-white
placards, standing near the house in which this candidate had
established his headquarters, had a disturbing influence on the little
animal. He shied violently, and would not proceed, but kept backing
towards the opposite pavement in a way which greatly alarmed the elder
lady.

"Oh, Edith!" she cried. "What did I tell you? I said it was not safe
for us to come alone. Oh, do stop it, and let me get out! I am not
nervous as a rule, but this is too much."

"Dear aunt, there is no danger," said the girl in a sweet, calm voice.
"Don will be all right in a moment; it is only that he is a staunch
Tory, and does not like—Oh, thank you!"

The thanks were for Gus, who had darted forward and laid his hand
on the pony's bridle. Patting pony's neck, and soothing it with
coaxing words and sounds, he quickly succeeded in leading it past the
objectionable cart. The girl thanked him with a radiant smile, then
leaning forward dropped a sixpence in palm. Gus looked after her as
she drove away with a strange sensation of pleasure; it was not the
sixpence only that made him glad, it was her kind look, her smile.

He turned to his father with sparkling eyes. "Now, we can have some
breakfast," he said.

But his father, too, was looking after the chaise with an eager,
wistful gaze.

"How strange that the voice should be so like," he murmured; "and an
Edith, too, just such another Edith!"

"Did you know her, father?" asked Gus, full of wonder.

"Know her, boy! Do I look like a man that would know ladies?"

And he sighed heavily as he turned to go home. Never had he been more
conscious of his wretchedness and degradation. But to Gus, the gift
of the sixpence and the young lady's smile had brought a great influx
of cheerfulness. The sun was shining brightly; there were flowers at
the street corners, and he, poor ragged boy that he was, looked bright
enough to match the day.

Half of the sixpence was soon expended on a breakfast of bread and
milk, of which his father would scarce partake. The way home was
long and weary. So weak and breathless did Gus' father find himself,
so often was he forced to pause and rest, that it was late in the
afternoon ere they reached Lavender Terrace.

After resting awhile, Gus' father went out again, carrying with him the
remainder of his diminished stock of books, leaving only the Bible,
which he would fain preserve. Gus had no expectation of seeing him
again till a late hour of the night; but, to his surprise, in about
an hour his father returned, with no sign about him of having entered
a public-house during his absence. He laid some money on the table,
sighing to see how little it was.

"A copy of the first folio," he murmured, "to fetch no more than seven
shillings! And my Dante—ah, well, what does it matter now?"

"Ask Mrs. Dent to be good enough to step here for a moment," he said to
Gus.

Gus had apparently some difficulty in bringing Mrs. Dent; but she came
at last with a somewhat unsteady step, her face flushed, her eyes dazed
and sleepy.

"Mrs. Dent," said her lodger, with a certain quiet dignity, which had
clung to him through all his misfortunes, "here is the money I owe you.
I gave you notice a week ago that I should leave to-morrow, and it is
still my intention. You know I promised to take myself off when I no
longer had the means to pay you."

"It's true you said it," exclaimed Sally; "but do you think I'd be hard
on a gentleman? I can tell you I knows a gentleman when I sees one;
and, as I was a-saying to Mrs. Minn the other day, it's easy to see
that you've come down in the world. What does it matter if you're a bit
hard up? If you don't pay at once you'll pay some time, and if not,
there's them belonging to you as will."

Her words made her lodger wince.

"You are mistaken," he said quietly; "I am not a gentleman, and I have
no friends who will ever trouble themselves about me. Take the money,
please, and understand that we leave to-morrow."

The woman took the money and went away, muttering to herself.

"Where are we going to-morrow, father?" Gus asked, as soon as they were
alone.

His father had seated himself by the table, and was drearily
contemplating the few shillings that remained on it. He looked up only
to say, "I do not know."

Gus was startled, but something in his father's manner withheld him
from asking further questions.

"Come and read to me, Gus," said his father, after a minute.

"What shall I read?" asked the boy.

"We have but one book now," said his father, pointing to the Bible.

Gus took the Bible and opened it. He remembered that the chapter he
had last read to his father was the first of St. Mark's Gospel, so now
he began to read the second chapter. His father did not appear to be
paying much attention to what he read; but as Gus finished the account
of the healing of the paralytic, his father suddenly said, as if
speaking to himself:

"He called him 'son;' and yet I suppose he had led a wicked life. And
without a word spoken between them, He forgave his sins."

Gus waited a few moments, but his father said no more, so he went on
and finished the chapter. Then, being very tired with their long tramp,
the little boy closed the book, and began to prepare for bed.

His father sat still, lost in thought. He was not looking forward
to the days that might come—days probably of hunger and want and
weary wandering, with no sleeping place save a corner in a common
lodging-house, or a bench in the open air. Somehow the hopeless future
seemed to have lost its power to appall him. His mind was back in the
past, living over again the days that had been. Then, with a heavy
sigh, he came back to the present.

"Did you speak, father?" Gus asked, half-raising himself from the bed
into which he had crept.

But the words his father had murmured were not addressed to him.

              "Nessun maggior dolore
       Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
           Nella miseria.

              "There is no greater sorrow
       Than to be mindful of the happy time
           In misery."

This man, whose memory so readily recalled the immortal words of Dante,
had had no mean culture. He had passed through a University course
with distinction; he had early won laurels in literature; a grand
career at the Bar had been prophesied for him when he entered upon his
profession. But this was what he had made of the future that had seemed
so full of promise.

In misery! Ah, verily, a misery those only know who can recall the
"happy time," and set in sharp and bitter contrast that which is, and
that which "might have been!"



CHAPTER IV.

THE LODGER LEAVES.

EVENING wore into night, but Gus' father still sat absorbed in
melancholy thought. Once more the past was living before him. He was
back in the days of his childhood, a happy boy, idolised by his proud
father and petted by the sister a few years older than himself, who,
his mother having died when he was too young to know her, was his
tender guardian.

Then passed in review his school days at Eton; then his college days,
when he had won a name for himself, and been lauded by the men of
his college; but in which—alas!—he had taken the first steps along
the path which had proved such a swift descent, taken them gaily and
triumphantly, with the belief that he was showing himself a man of
spirit and superior sagacity.

Then followed the years in which he was engaged in reading for the Bar,
and making his first successful essays in the field of literature.
Then came his meeting with the sweet gentle woman whom, in defiance
of his father's wishes, he married. Alienation from his home was the
consequence. In less than two years, death closed the eyes of his wife,
and he was left to rear their infant boy alone.

But sorrow had not made him wise; it had hardened him into
recklessness. Then it was that Philip Darnell, clever, subtle, suave,
crossed his path. Acquaintance with him had quickly ripened into a
specious friendship. Through him had come the introduction to gaming
clubs, and the inevitable embarrassment and misery which ensued; and
when ruin stared the unfortunate victim in the face, Darnell had drawn
near with base, insidious whisper, to suggest the forgery of his
father's name.

He had yielded to the temptation; in an excited hour he had done a deed
which darkened every coming hour with keenest remorse. Discovery had
followed. The forgery had been traced to him; he was arrested, and only
set at liberty because his father had refused to prosecute him.

But disgrace clung to him. His friends forsook him. Philip Darnell,
repudiating the idea that he had ever suggested such a crime save as
the merest jest, was the first to lift the finger of scorn at him. A
terrible sense of degradation drove him into excesses from which he
would formerly have shrunk. He drank to drown thought, and as the habit
of drinking grew upon him, he sank into deeper and deeper depths of
misery, dragging with him his young son.

Augustus Carruthers "went under," and was seen no more by the circle
in which he had formerly moved. Yet, though he kept away from them, he
was never far from his former haunts. But none of his old companions,
passing him in the street, would have recognised in the shabby, bent
man, prematurely aged, the man whose brilliant intellect had excited
their admiration in other days.

Bitter in retrospect were those bygone days now to the forlorn man,
seated in his miserable lodging. Miserable as it was, it was one he
could no longer afford. He must wander forth on the morrow—whither? He
was sorry for poor little Gus, but for himself, it hardly seemed to
matter what followed. A strange lethargy fell upon him as he sat there.
He grew cold, his limbs grew numb; but he never thought of going to bed.

Gus, rousing from his slumbers long past midnight, saw the candle
flickering in the socket, and his father still seated at the table,
leaning forward upon his elbows, his face half-hidden by his hands. He
seemed to be murmuring something; but Gus could not catch the words. He
thought his father must be praying.

"Father," Gus said presently; but there was no reply, and the child
turned round and slept again.

The candle flickered and flickered, and at last went out. The first
grey light of morning, stealing through the dingy pane, fell on a face
of ashen hue, with sad, fixed eyes. The spirit that had looked out of
those eyes had returned to the Father of spirits. The wasted, misspent
life of the man was at an end. Gus awoke to find himself fatherless.



CHAPTER V.

HOW THE NEIGHBOURS SYMPATHISED.

"I SAID he was a gentleman!" cried Sally Dent to the neighbours
gathered about her doorstep. "But I didn't think he was a-goin' to die
suddent, and give me all the bother of a inkwest, and the police comin'
and goin', and such a commotion till you don't know whether your house
is your own. I don't call that a gentlemanly thing to do."

"P'raps he couldn't help it," suggested Mrs. Minn. "Folks don't allus
know when they're a-goin' to die."

"For goodness' sake, don't talk that way, Mrs. Minn!" cried Sally,
excitedly. "It ain't lucky when there's death in the 'ouse a'ready! I'm
sure I was that turned over when I saw what 'ad 'appened this mornin'
that you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather. I was forced to
take somethin' before I went into the room again, and I'm all of a
tremble still."

"What sort of a corpse do 'e make?" asked another woman.

"A real beauty," replied Sally with enthusiasm. "You'd 'ardly know him,
he looks so much younger; all the lines and creases is gone, and his
face is just lovely. He looks the gentleman now, he do indeed! You go
inside and take a look at 'im, if you doubt my word."

"Poor gentleman!" said Joe Clark, the carpenter, not satirically.
"Whatever he was, he'd come down in the world, and had a lot of
trouble. Well, there's an end to it now. What's to be done about the
funeral, Mrs. Dent?"

"The parish must bury him," said Sally promptly; "he's left only a few
shillin's, hardly enough to buy refreshments for the funeral. It is
strange how he would pay me last night—seems as if he wanted to leave
things all square like. It touched me at the time, for I've a feelin'
'eart."

"I'd be happy to knock him up a coffin jest for the cost of the wood,"
suggested Joe Clark, "if any one was inclined to 'elp. Them parish
funerals is very humiliatin' to a man."

"That's a good thought, Joe Clark," said Sally Dent, who really had a
kind heart. "I'm ready to pay my share, if so be as you're goin' to
make a collection. Sure, and I'm thankful my good man did not come to
be buried by the parish. We begun to put into a buryin' club soon as
ever we was married, for, as I said, there was no knowin' what 'ud
'appen, or who'd be the first to go. And a real 'andsome funeral 'is
was."

One and another of the neighbours declared their willingness to help.
Nothing interested them like a funeral. They liked the idea of seeing
the poor gentleman, who had never done them either good or ill, carried
to his grave "as a gentleman should be." In a short time, sufficient
money was raised to pay the hire of a hearse, behind which the
neighbours might walk two and two, headed by the chief mourner, to the
cemetery, which lay near Glensford. Sally Dent kept in reserve the few
shillings she had found in her lodger's room to pay for "refreshments."

Meanwhile Gus cared not at all in what manner his father's body was
borne to the grave. The boy was stunned by the trouble that had come so
suddenly upon him. Childlike, though he had often seen his father weak
and suffering, he had never thought that death would take him away. In
losing his father, he had lost the only love, the only tenderness he
could remember. It was terrible that he should be left alone in the
world.

But the boy's thoughts did not go forward into the future as he sat
motionless beside the bed on which lay the still, set form wearing
the inimitable majesty with which death will invest even a pauper's
form. The square, strong brow, the delicately chiselled nostril, the
fine curve of the short upper lip, had the perfection of a sculptor's
handiwork. But for Gus it was his father, and yet not his father.
He looked with awe as well as grief upon that calm face. He shed no
tears; but his blue eyes expressed a dumb anguish as they held their
unfaltering gaze. He never willingly spoke or moved as one and another
came and went, viewing the corpse and freely remarking on it.

The inquest held on the body of George Rew—for that was the name Sally
Dent gave as her lodger's—was a simple affair. A medical man gave
evidence of the existence of long-seated heart-disease, aggravated by
a hard and intemperate life. Sally Dent bore witness to the character
and habits of the deceased. She had brushed and plaited her abundant
tresses, put on a tidy gown, and made herself quite presentable for
the occasion, so that the coroner and jury were impressed with her
respectable appearance. When the coroner asked what was to become of
the orphan boy, and suggested that he should be sent to an industrial
school, Sally announced her willingness to give the boy a home. He
would be useful in looking after the little ones and doing jobs in the
house; she would see that he went to school regularly. And the coroner
was satisfied that this would be a good thing for Gus, and commended
the woman for her kindness to the boy.

The funeral took place on the day following that of the inquest.

Gus watched all the proceedings with unbroken composure till he saw
the coffin closed over the face that he had grown to love in its cold,
stone-like beauty. Then a bitter cry broke from him, and he threw
himself, in an agony of grief, upon the bed on which his father had
lain.

But he allowed himself to be raised, and struggled to keep back his
sobs when Mrs. Minn and a friend came in to array him for the funeral
in Mrs. Minn's eldest boy's best clothes, kindly lent for the occasion.
Gus was too small to fill them, and with knickerbockers descending
almost to his ankles, and a coat in which his slender form was lost,
whilst the sleeves had to be turned back almost to the elbow to give
freedom to his hands, the appearance of the chief mourner was decidedly
grotesque. But the clothes were, by courtesy, black, and though shiny,
they were whole, so they came up to the standard Lavender Terrace held
of what was befitting to a funeral, which did not require nicety of fit.

The clothes, which he had not "proved," gave Gus considerable anxiety
as he shuffled along behind the coffin, followed by as many of the
denizens in Lavender Terrace as could get a half-day's holiday. He
would far rather have worn the old, ragged garments, in which he could
walk freely, without being harassed by dread lest he and his clothes
should part company altogether.

Gus had seen funerals enough, but he had never before "assisted" at
one, and perhaps the novelty of his position combined with a most
unwonted sense of importance to blunt his sensibility of all that this
event meant for him.

Is it not a merciful dispensation that the majority of us get through
our darkest hours with a sense of numbness and unreality that spares
us the full agony of the wrench which later we feel in its intensity?
Gus only half realised that it was his father's form they were lowering
into the grave. He did not give way again to the wild grief that had
shaken him when he saw the coffin-lid pressed down.

The general feeling of Lavender Terrace would have liked him to display
more emotion. The neighbours around him made a grand flourishing of
the rare pocket-handkerchiefs reserved for such occasions. But Gus
maintained his composure, and shuffled back to the Terrace with outward
calm, though with a heart that ached sorely.

The "refreshments" had been laid out in Sally Dent's front room. Into
this apartment pressed every one who had attended the funeral. There
was a grand drawing of corks, and gradually the odour of spirits
diffused itself through the room. Gus had been carried into the room
with the others against his will. He was watching for a chance of
escape, when Sally's eye fell on him, and she beckoned him to her.

"Come, Gus," she said, "you should be the first served to-day. Take
a long drink; it will do you good, for you've hardly tasted anything
since you got up."

And she held out to him a glass of strong gin and water.

But Gus drew back with an air of repugnance. "No, thank you, I cannot
indeed; I never drink spirits," he said.

"Oh, but you're bound to have a drop to-day; it's your father's
funeral. It ain't lucky to refuse to drink at a funeral. Come now, it
won't hurt you; and I say you shall have it, so there!"

"Yes, yes, young man, you'll have to take it, whether you will or not,"
said one of the men. "There's no gainsaying Sally. That's right, bring
the glass here; we'll make him swaller it."

And he pinioned Gus' arms to his side, holding him in a grasp the boy
was powerless to shake off. There was a general laugh as Sally advanced
with the glass. Time enough had been given to tears and sighs. The
reaction was setting in. It was only right to laugh and be jolly now,
when the funeral was successfully accomplished.

"I won't drink it! I promised father I never would, and I won't!" cried
Gus.

"That's a joke!" roared another man. "Promised his father, indeed! I'll
be bound his father would never have refused a glass of good liquor."

Things were growing desperate with Gus. Sally was pressing the glass
to his lips; he clenched his teeth, but the man, half-strangling him,
forced his mouth open. Gus saved himself; however. With a sudden,
tremendous effort, he struck out with his chin so forcibly that he sent
the glass flying from Sally's hand to the floor, where it lay shivered.

"Well, of all ungrateful young varmints!" cried Sally, in her
indignation. "After all we've done for you, buryin' your father like a
gentleman, when, but for us, he must've had the parish hearse. One of
my new glasses, I declare! Get along with you, do, if you can't behave
better than that!"

Gus needed no second bidding to be off. He left the company lamenting
the waste of good spirit, and rushed into the dismal back room which
had been his home. It looked to his eyes more dismal than ever, now
that the table and trunk which had supported the coffin stood bare.
With a cry, he threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and hid his
face in the tumbled bed-clothes.

"Oh, father!" he cried. "Father, father! What can I do without you?"

As the evening wore on, the sounds of mirth in the adjoining room
grew louder and wilder. No one gave a thought to the fatherless boy.
He crouched there alone and comfortless, till he forgot his sorrow in
sleep.



CHAPTER VI.

GUS WINS A NAME.

AFTER that night, Gus could no longer call the back room home. Sally
Dent performed the task she described as "turning it out" on the
following day, and by night it was not only ready for another lodger,
but another lodger had possession of it. In the "turning-out" process,
Sally came upon the Bible, which she had already observed with much
interest. She was struck anew with the beauty of the embossed cover and
the watered silk lining.

"Here, Gus," she called to the boy, "you'd better let me keep this;
it's too good for you to 'ave knocking about. It'll be some set off
against all I've done and shall do for you. It isn't many folks would
take a strange brat into their 'omes; but I've a feelin' 'eart."

"It was father's," said Gus, looking wistfully at the book. "Sometimes
I used to read a bit of it to him."

"Well, maybe you shall read me a bit of it some day," said Sally; "it
won't be the first time I've listened to it. I used to go to church and
Sunday school reg'lar once; but I've no time to attend to religion now.
You'd best let me 'ave it, anyhow."

Gus said no more, feeling that it was useless to oppose Sally's wish.
She carried the Bible into her room, and there opened it once more, to
admire the beautiful style of the binding. Then she noticed that the
reading was not broken up into verses, as in the Bibles with which she
had been familiar. Glancing over a page, as this fact struck her, the
words met her eyes, "The wages of sin is death."

Sally closed the book, and put it from her hastily. The words had stung
her. The wages of sin! Was she earning those wages? She knew she was a
sinner, but the thought had never troubled her. She loved sin, but she
hated to think of death. She could enjoy the excitement of a funeral,
but it was awful to think of the time when she would lie cold, and
stiff, and dumb, as she had seen her lodger lie.

"Well, well," she muttered to herself; "it is what we must all come to,
good or bad."

Yet she knew there was a vast difference between the sinner's death and
the death of the righteous. But she hastily wrapped the Bible in brown
paper, and put it far from reach at the back of a high shelf; then
feeling "all of a tremble," betook herself for comfort to a certain
black bottle.

Sally found a corner for Gus in the cold, draughty attic in which
her two little boys slept. The old black trunk, the few worthless
possessions left in it, and his father's clothes, she sold, retaining
the money, to which she considered she had the best right. So Gus was
left with nothing to call his own save his very ragged clothes.

Sally had announced her intention of mending his rags, and, if
possible, setting him up with a few fresh garments; but her indolence
was such that her purposes were ever "halting" ones, and it was best
not to count upon the fulfilment of her good intentions.

Though Gus had now been several weeks at Lavender Terrace, he knew
little of the boys of Glensford. His father had discouraged his making
acquaintance with them, and had kept him as much as possible within the
house. But Sally had no notion of a boy's "hanging round" at all hours.
Gus was thrust into the society of the boys who disported themselves in
the lane.

On the day following his father's funeral, he was observed by them with
some curiosity.

"What's your name?" asked one of the boys.

"Gus," he answered.

"It were your father, wer'n't it, as were buried yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. Is it true what the folks were a-sayin', that he were a
broken-down gent, one of the swells?"

"He was a gentleman once," said Gus.

"A gentleman! My word! What do you call yoursel'? P'raps you're a gent
too?"

"No, I'm not," said Gus; "but I mean to be a gentleman some day."

"Well, if that ain't good! Look here, all you fellers, this chap says
he's goin' to be a gentleman. Don't he look it just? Look at his
breeches, look at his shoes! Oh, what a fine gentleman! Do hold me,
some one, I shall die of laughin'!"

The other boys roared with laughter as they gathered about Gus. He had
a sorry time of it. In vain he tried to escape from his tormentors;
they were all bigger and stronger than he, and when, hot with rage, he
tried to strike out with his tiny fists, their mirth increased tenfold.
They danced round him, they pelted him with mud, they plucked at his
garments till the rents therein were double their former size, and all
the while they shouted—"Gentleman, Gentleman Gus!"—till their voices
were hoarse.

Gus had won for himself a name. The title thus dubbed clung to him.
Henceforth he was known at Lavender Terrace as "Gentleman Gus."

Gus was at last delivered by the appearance of Sally Dent, who rushed
into the group, and administering blows indiscriminately, soon
scattered the boys. She was dismayed to see Gus' condition.

"Good gracious, boy!" she cried. "What did you want to go with those
big fellows for? A nice state they've put you in, and goodness knows
when I shall have time to set a stitch in your clothes. Indeed, it
strikes me they're past mendin'. But never mind, just come 'ere, and
look after the baby a bit."

Looking after the baby soon became the chief occupation of Gus' life.
It was weary work. He wondered sometimes if such a big, lumping baby
had ever been known before. Dragging it about in his arms, or sitting
with it on a doorstep, he had much time for meditation, and his mind
dwelt often upon his father.

Like many another child, he had hardly known that he loved his father
till his father was taken from him. Now he missed him sorely, and
longed to hear his voice again, telling him what he should do and what
not do. He did not forget the promise he had given to his father; but
it puzzled him greatly how he was to keep that promise. His father had
once been a gentleman, and he, Gus, had said that he would try to be a
gentleman. But what did it mean to be a gentleman? One day he ventured
to put a question on the subject to Mrs. Minn's eldest son.

"Dick," he said, "do you know anything about gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen! What do yer mean? Swells?"

"Yes," said Gus; "what sort of people are they?"

Now Dick was employed as an errand boy in a grocer's shop, and he was
besides a greedy devourer of cheap literature, so that he spoke as one
who knew.

"Fellers as 'ave got lots of tin, and don't do no work. They eats and
drinks the best of everythink, gets jolly drunk, and never pays their
bills if they can 'elp it. Oh, it's fine to be a gentleman!"

"Is it?" said Gus doubtfully. "Would you like to be a gentleman, Dick?"

"Wouldn't I just!" returned Dick, with a knowing wink. "I'd have the
times of it."

Dick's explanation only increased Gus' difficulties. Could that be
what his father meant by being a gentleman? Certainly his father had
been in the habit of getting drunk, but he had been most careful to
pay every penny they owed. Besides, his father had made him promise
never to touch strong drink; so, clearly, getting drunk did not belong
to being a gentleman. No; his father had said that a gentleman must be
brave, and honest, and truthful. Were there two kinds of gentlemen, Gus
wondered, or were Dick's ideas on the subject utterly mistaken?



CHAPTER VII.

A CHIVALROUS EXPLOIT.

SALLY DENT'S new lodger, like her former one, was a quiet man. She
gave him this character, and the neighbours soon agreed that she was
not mistaken in so doing. He moved and spoke so quietly that it was
never easy to tell whether or not he was in the house, and he had a
way of appearing suddenly with his noiseless, cat-like tread which was
startling to nervous people.

He was a man who could lean motionless against the railway fence for
half an hour, watching all that went on in the lane, without exchanging
a word with any one, and who could listen to a fierce quarrel between
neighbours without betraying by the least sign which of the contending
parties had his sympathy. Yet when addressed, he was neither surly nor
morose, nor did he show any reluctance to speak of his past history.
He was a locksmith by trade, he said; had been in the employ of an
ironmonger, but had been dismissed on account of the bad times, and now
lived by any chance jobs he could get.

He was a man past forty years of age, and he brought a son and
a daughter with him to Lavender Terrace. The son was a rough,
evil-looking lad of sixteen, and the daughter a delicate little girl of
twelve. This man, Lucas by name, would sometimes go off of a morning
with his tool-bag over his shoulder, and be absent for several hours;
but on other days he would hang about the lane, or busy himself in
his room, so that his search for employment was not very vigorously
prosecuted. But as he continued to pay regularly the rent of his room,
Sally Dent did not concern herself about his habits.

Lucy Lucas was a shy, timid child, with an unnaturally grave expression
and sad-looking eyes. She was lame from chronic hip disease, and went
out little, for she was frightened of the rough boys who frequented the
lane. That her fears were not unfounded was proved one evening about
a fortnight after her arrival, when, in her brother's absence, she
ventured as far as the public-house to fetch the beer for her father's
supper.

Unfortunately there were many boys at Glensford with the cruel instinct
of the bully who delights to torment and even torture those who are
weak and defenceless. The sight of Lucy limping along, and carrying,
with considerable danger of spilling its contents, the well-filled
beer-jug, was hailed with delight by a group of these boys, who were
hanging about in doubt how to spend the evening.

"Hurrah! Here comes the beer; now we'll have a drink!" they cried,
and rushed upon poor little Lucy, crying, "Give us a drink, give us a
drink!"

"I can't," said Lucy, white with fear; "it's for father's supper. I
can't give it to you."

"It's for my supper, I tell you," said the ringleader of the band, "and
I mean to have it, so hand it over."

He put out his hand to seize the jug; Lucy jerked it back suddenly,
with the result that half the contents went over her frock and apron.

"There, there, there! You'd better have given it to us!" they cried,
closing round her. "We means to have it."

The poor child in her helplessness began to cry aloud. The sound
brought "Gentleman Gus" to the rescue. He knew Lucy; she had spoken
kindly to him once or twice; but had she been unknown to him, he would
have gone to her assistance just the same. He had so far the instincts
of a gentleman that it would have been impossible for him to stand by
and see a girl ill-treated without attempting to strike a blow in her
defence.

Undaunted by the number and strength of the boys, Gus threw himself
into their midst. Seizing the stretched out for the beer, he inflicted
such a vicious pinch on it, that it was drawn back with a yell of pain.
Then he dashed upon the assailants, kicking out right and left with all
his might. They recoiled a little in their surprise, and he shouted to
Lucy to run away. But running was impossible for her, and whilst one
boy dealt Gus a blow that made his nose bleed, and another assisted in
"polishing him off," the rest closed around Lucy again. But only for a
moment.

A stinging blow on the head sent the foremost boy staggering backwards,
whilst a voice in low, but most impressive accents exclaimed, "You
young blackguard! I'll teach you to touch my girl again!"

It was Lucas, who, unperceived, had entered the lane in time to see his
daughter's distress and Gus' gallant rush to her aid.

"Oh, father!" Lucy cried. "Don't let them hurt Gus; he was so good, so
brave."

But Lucas needed no such admonition.

"You leave that little chap alone!" he said to the boys. "And if ever I
find you hurting him again, it will be the worse for you."

The boys slunk away, muttering beneath their breath.

Gus emerged from the fight bloody and breathless.

"You're a brave little chap," said Lucas admiringly; "a well-plucked
'un, upon my word! Now come with me, and I'll wash your face before
your mother sees you."

"He's got no mother, father," said Lucy. "Don't you remember I told you
he'd no one belonging to him? He lives with Mrs. Dent, but she's no
relation."

"Ah," said her father, regarding Gus more closely with a shrewd,
observant glance. "Well, come along, lad; we'll fix you up, and you
shall have your supper with us to-night. He's your champion, Lucy, and
must be rewarded. You are looking quite white with the fright, my lass.
Those fellows did not hurt you, did they?"

"No, father; it was only the fright," she said.

But he continued to watch her anxiously.

It was strange to Gus to be entertained as a guest in the room so
familiar to him. But it looked very different. There were white
curtains at the window, which had been well cleaned since Gus saw it,
and flower-pots on the sill. A thick curtain hung on an iron rod near
Lucy's little bed, and was drawn across the room at night. An old easy
chair stood by the fireplace, some pipes and a jar of tobacco were on
the mantelpiece, a clean cloth covered the table, which was neatly
laid for supper, and a saucepan simmering on the fire emitted a very
inviting odour.

Gus was rather startled to see Lucas close the door and lock it as soon
as they were within the room. Then he turned to the boy, and said in
his lowest, most impressive tones—

"Look here, youngster, no splitting, mind you, as to anything here.
We're glad to see you, you're welcome to your supper; but you're just
to keep things to yourself. Do you understand?"

Gus nodded. "I won't tell nothin' to nobody," he said.

And Lucas was satisfied.

With Lucy's help, Gus soon removed all traces of the fray, whilst Lucas
went to fetch some more beer. When her father returned, Lucy, who was
very womanly for her age, dished up the supper. It was rabbit, stewed
with vegetables; a more appetising meal than Gus often had, and he
thoroughly enjoyed it. Lucas talked to him as he ate it, asking many
questions, apparently with the view of forming an opinion of the boy's
capacity.

When supper was almost over, the son came in. He appeared astonished
and not over pleased to see Gus there. He spoke roughly to his sister
and surlily to his father, to whom he gave some information in such
curious phraseology that it was wholly unintelligible to Gus.

A little later Gus took his departure. Lucas said good-night to him
kindly, and invited him to come in and out whenever he liked. It was
dull for Lucy, he said, to be so much alone.

When he had gone, the father and son looked at each other significantly.

"A well-plucked young 'un that," said Lucas. "It strikes me, he'll
serve our little game."

"Not he," returned his son, with an oath. "He's a jolly sight too
green."

"Think so?" said Lucas. "Well, we shall see. I mean to try what I can
make of him."



CHAPTER VIII.

GUS' NEW FRIENDS.

GUS saw much of Lucas and his daughter in the days that followed. He
was often invited into their room, and the man showed much interest in
him. Sometimes Lucas would pat Gus on the back, and tell him he was a
smart fellow, and he would make a man of him. Lucy, too, was kind to
him, but she was very sad and quiet. Gus supposed it was being so weak
and lame made her sad.

The boy saw and heard many things when he was with them which made him
wonder. He noticed that though Lucas had no regular employment, he was
never without money. He would speak to the neighbours of the bad times;
but their badness seemed in no way to affect his comfort. His food was
of the best; he had dainties on his table that were to be seen on no
other in Lavender Terrace. He told Gus that he bought them for Lucy's
sake, whose appetite required much tempting; but the fact remained
that he had the power to spend money as none of his neighbours could.
Certainly he had not the fatal weakness which had dragged Gus' father
down into the lowest depths of misery. He never drank to excess. Some
beer with his meals and an occasional glass of spirits was all he took.
But the spirit was of the best quality, as was also the tobacco which
he smoked.

"A gentleman could not have better, Gentleman Gus," he said one day to
the boy, when he was in a merry mood.

"Gentleman Gus indeed!" snarled Jack, with a contemptuous glance at him.

"You hold your tongue!" cried his father. "I tell you he shall be a
gentleman.

"You do as I tell you, my lad," he added, patting Gus on the shoulder,
"and I'll make a gentleman of you."

Gus' colour rose with pleasure. He had no doubt Lucas could help him
to be a gentleman, for the man was in many respects different from the
other men who dwelt at Lavender Terrace.

But Jack scowled more darkly than before, and muttered something the
boy could not understand. Gus was no favourite with him.

A few days later, Lucas invited Gus to come for a tramp with him and
his son. Gus felt honoured by the invitation, and gladly accepted.

They started early in the afternoon. Lucas carried his workman's bag,
so Gus concluded he was going in search of employment. They walked a
long way in a Westerly direction from Glensford, passing through one
suburb of London after another. They did not go to the shops, as Gus
expected.

Lucas seemed more interested in the large handsome houses they
passed—houses standing by themselves in gardens, and in which only rich
people could dwell. The amount of curiosity concerning these which
he displayed was something astonishing. Now he would steal along a
shrubbery to get a nearer view, or swing himself lightly to the top of
a wall. Gus saw with admiration how quick and nimble Lucas and his son
were in their movements. He wished he could climb as well. Even a tall
spiked fence seemed to offer them no obstacle if they wished to get to
the other side. As they went on they talked to each other in a jargon
Gus could not understand, but he could see they were not of one mind,
and that Jack was out of temper with his father.

At last, when the sun was sinking low in the west, and Gus was growing
very weary, Lucas said, as they approached some shops—

"Come, little chap, you're getting tired and hungry, I can see. You go
to that shop and get yourself a glass of milk and a good big bun. Jack
and I'll go on to the next pub, and you can come to us there; but I
know it's no good asking you to take a drink of beer. And you're right,
my little lad. Drink steals a man's brains, and he who muddles his head
with it, can never succeed in business which requires keen wits. Now go
and get your grub, and then come on to us."

As he spoke he handed Gus a bright two-shilling piece, bidding him
bring back the change correctly. Gus thanked him, and ran off.

The woman in charge of the confectioner's shop looked coldly at the
very ragged little boy who came in and asked for a glass of milk and a
bun.

"Can you pay for it?" she demanded.

Gus promptly handed her the two-shilling piece. She looked at it
suspiciously, then threw it on the counter. The sound it made seemed to
confirm her suspicion. She looked at it once more, then gave it back to
Gus.

"That is not good money," she said; "where did you get it?"

"Mr. Lucas gave it to me."

"And who is Mr. Lucas?"

"He's a friend of mine," said Gus; "but what do you mean about the
money?"

"I mean that it's a bad florin; one that never came from the Mint.
There's been a good many of them about lately. I was deceived by one
once, but I shall not be again. Come, if that's all the money you've
got to pay with, you'd best be off."

"I'll tell Mr. Lucas," said Gus, turning away disappointed; "I'm sure
he did not know it was bad money."

"I daresay!" said the woman. "That's a likely story. Where's this Mr.
Lucas that you talk about?"

"He's close by—just a little further along the road," said Gus.

The woman followed him to the door, her looks full of suspicion. It is
so easy to believe the worst of those in whose appearance poverty is
conspicuous. She looked up and down the road, but saw no man.

"You good-for-nothing young scamp!" she cried. "Don't come here with
your false coin and your lies again. Be off with you, quick, or I'll
give you to the police!"

Gus was bewildered. He had not been in the shop more than a minute, he
could not understand how Lucas and his son had got so quickly out of
sight.

"They were going to the public-house," he said.

"There's no public-house just here," said the woman, "and I can tell
you this is not the place for you or your friends—if you have any.
We're honest people here. Come, be off with you, or I'll call a
policeman!"

Gus moved away feeling much disturbed. He could not bear to think
that the woman looked upon him as a cheat, for he had been trained to
strict honesty, and, in spite of what Dick had said, he was convinced
that a gentleman should always act on the square. He walked on in the
direction Lucas and his son had taken, wondering what had become of
them. When he had gone a little distance they suddenly appeared before
him, springing over a fence that skirted some fields.

"Well, boy, have you got my change?" asked Lucas.

Jack burst into a roar of laughter as Gus told his story, ending with
the words, "I told her I was sure you did not know it was bad money."

Lucas laughed too for a moment, but seeing Gus' troubled look, he
checked himself.

"Never mind, lad," he said, "you've done your best. I mean you could
not help it, if the woman would have it, it was bad money."

"Wasn't it?" asked Gus eagerly.

"Of course it wasn't bad money," replied Lucas, laughing; "it was good
money—very good money indeed."

Something in his manner made Gus uneasy. He began to be troubled with
doubts concerning his new friends.

"Didn't I tell you?" cried Jack, turning to his father. "Didn't I tell
you he was too green for anything?"

"Never you mind," returned the other; "he'll be all right by-and-by.
Here, Gus, take this penny; you shall not lose your bun. There's
another shop a little further on, and meanwhile here's our pub."



CHAPTER IX.

AT SUNDAY SCHOOL.

IT was not often that Gus could get away from the baby for a whole
afternoon; but on the following Sunday, he found himself once more at
liberty. Sally Dent had gone to visit a relative who lived in London,
and had taken the baby with her. So Gus started forth for a ramble
with a delightful sense of freedom. It was a lovely June day, lovely
with that first freshness of the summer, which in the neighbourhood of
London so quickly sullies.

Glensford looked its best on such a day. There were daisies and even
a few lingering buttercups in the fields; the hedges were green; the
stream, in which boys were bathing and paddling, rippled clear and
bright in the sunshine. It was warm enough to make the ice-creams,
which a man was selling at a corner of the green, very tempting to the
youth of the place.

Gus had seldom a penny in his pocket, so ice-creams were not for him.
He passed them by, turned his back on the boys noisily disporting
themselves in the stream, and walked off in the direction he had taken
with Lucas and his son a few days earlier. He thought he should like to
go over some of the ground again, and look at his leisure on the large
houses and pretty gardens along the road.

He found the way without difficulty. He saw much to interest him as
he went along. Numbers of bright, neat-looking children passed him
on their way to Sunday school. Some of them carried flowers in their
hands. Gus had never been to Sunday school, and he wondered as he heard
them talking what it could be like. Here and there a church bell was
tinkling to summon people to the afternoon service.

Gus walked on briskly for some time; but when he had gained the top of
a long hill, he felt hot and tired. Looking round, he saw on the left a
small iron building, about which a number of children were gathering,
like bees hovering and buzzing about a hive. Gus crossed the road and
stood by the palings watching them curiously, and they looked at him
with equal curiosity; but not one addressed him, for his clothes looked
so very old, whilst they were all arrayed in their "Sunday things."

But suddenly Gus felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turning, saw a
young lady standing beside him.

She was very pretty, with an abundance of fair hair neatly braided
beneath her white straw hat, and soft blue eyes that were looking at
him with the kindest of glances. They were indeed very like Gus' own
eyes; but he did not know that. He was accustomed to make his toilette
without the aid of a looking-glass, and had but the vaguest notion of
the appearance he presented to the world.

But as he gazed into the young lady's kind eyes, he had a confused
notion that he had seen them before. And trying to recall when and how
they had met, he hardly heeded the words she addressed to him.

"Why are you standing here, little boy? Will you not come into school?"

The sweet, gentle voice, too, seemed familiar. The next moment there
flashed on Gus a recollection of the day preceding his father's death,
the cart covered with flaring posters, and the frightened pony he had
led past it. This was the young lady who had driven the pony. He was so
surprised at the discovery that he stared at her without speaking.

"Won't you come in?" she said again. "Do; I am sure you will like it."

"I'll come if you like," Gus answered then, "but I don't know nothing
about it."

"That's right; come along."

And he followed her into the schoolroom, and to the corner where she
held her class, and where already several boys were seated. Most of
them were older, and all of them far more respectable in appearance
than Gus. In the conscious glory of Sunday coats and clean collars,
they looked askance at the little stranger their teacher brought with
her. They drew away from him as he entered, and nudged each other as
they eyed the rents in his garments.

Their teacher appeared unaware of the sensation the new scholar
created. She gave him a place beside her. Perhaps she saw that though
ragged, he was perfectly clean. Early that morning, when few other boys
were astir, and the water was deliciously fresh, Gus had taken a good
dip in the Glensford stream. It was his habit to do so every morning.

There were several other classes in the room, and for a while Gus was
too much interested in observing all that was going on and the strange
place in which he found himself, to be aware of the ill-will his
companions began to manifest towards him.

It was a pleasant room, with pictures on the walls, and prettily
coloured screens stood at hand, by which the classes would be
partitioned off from each other when the teaching began. But first the
superintendent, standing on a small platform at the end of the room,
gave out a hymn, which was sung, and then he prayed.

The prayer was not a comfortable time for Gus. First he received a
kick, and then a sharp pinch on the arm; and then some one inflicted
on him the peculiar torture which is caused by seizing a single hair
growing on a person's head, and tugging it out by one mighty pull.
In vain Gus tried to discover and avenge himself on his persecutors.
The boys were too quick for him, and all alike presented a devout
appearance the instant he turned.

When the class began to read the lesson, it appeared that Gus, despite
his poverty-stricken aspect, could read as well as any boy present, and
better than some of them could. The teacher praised his reading, and
the boys did not like him the better in consequence. Soon the young
lady perceived the treatment to which Gus was being slyly subjected.

"For shame, boys!" she said. "Is that the way to treat a stranger? I am
really ashamed. And I hoped I was going to make gentlemen of you."

Gus looked up quickly. Perhaps it was his vivid look of interest which
made her say the next moment:

"Now tell me, what is a gentleman?"

The answers were various. One boy said that a gentleman was a rich man;
another that he was one who knew a great deal; and a third suggested
that he was one who had good manners. He, the teacher told him, was
nearest to the truth.

"Because," said she, "truly good manners spring from a good heart.
No one who acts unkindly to another, no one who takes advantage of
the weak and helpless, no one who cheats and lies, is a gentleman. It
is the gentle heart that makes the gentleman. Love is the law of his
life. Oh, boys, the truest gentleman that ever lived was the Lord Jesus
Christ, and you must follow His example if you would deserve the name
of gentleman."

Gus listened eagerly. This was the kind of gentleman his father had
wished him to be. Dick was altogether wrong.

There was at least one attentive scholar in the school that
afternoon—one who missed no word that his teacher spoke of the love and
graciousness of the Lord Jesus Christ; one to whom the Gospel story
was not entirely new, but who saw for the first time that day what the
story meant for him.

Gus was sorry when the lesson came to an end, sorry when the last hymn
was sung, and the scholars began to pass out of the schoolroom. The
young lady asked him with a smile if he would not come again; but Gus
remembered the baby and shook his head. Just then a gentleman came
forward to claim her attention, and Gus slipped away, followed by a
gentle:

"Do come if you can."

Gus was full of thought as he took his way home. So the Lord Jesus
Christ was the one perfect gentleman whom he must imitate if he would
become a gentleman. There was a great deal about Him in the Bible, Gus
knew. He wished he had paid more attention in the days when he used to
read the Bible to his father. He wished he had that Bible again. What
had Sally Dent done with it? Would she give it him, he wondered, if he
were to ask her for it?

It was evening when Gus got back to Glensford. On a warm evening, when
the dwellers at Glensford yearned for a breath of cool air, they would
climb to the top of the sloping field to the right, which was already
half built over. There were many persons in the fields to-night, but
quite at the top of the high field, clearly outlined against the sky,
Gus saw Lucy seated alone. He hastened to join her.

Lucy did not see him till he was almost at her side. She sat motionless
upon the bank, gazing before her, and her face was sadder than ever,
Gus thought. The fresh breeze brought no glow to her cheek, nor could
the beauty of the sunset kindle gladness in her eyes. The view from
the top of the hill was very fine. Behind Lucy, shrouded by a veil of
smoke, London lay, but before her were meadows and hills, some of the
hills wooded, and some covered with houses, to which distance gave
picturesqueness, whilst immediately below lay the extensive cemetery
of Glensford. When Lucy saw Gus, she smiled; but it was a poor little
smile, which only seemed to emphasise the sadness of her eyes.

"Where have you been, Gus?" she asked. "I have seen nothing of you all
the afternoon."

"I have been a long way," said Gus, with some importance; "right over
there where you see those houses. And I have been to Sunday school."

"To Sunday school!" said Lucy surprised.

"A young lady asked me to come in, and she looked so nice and kind that
I thought I would, just to see what 'twas like."

"And how did you like it?"

"Very much," said Gus; "though the boys led me a pretty life at first.
I meant to give them something for themselves when we got outside, but
somehow I didn't. It seemed to me more gentlemanly to take no notice of
them."

"You are right," said Lucy, smiling. "Oh, Gus, I'm so glad you're not
like those horrid boys who are always fighting and quarrelling. Do you
know, I used to go to Sunday school once?"

"Did you?"

"Yes; it was when my mother was living." And Lucy's face grew sadder
than before.

"She is dead now?"

"Yes, she died five years ago. Gus, since I have been sitting here and
looking down there—" she pointed in the direction of the cemetery—"I
have been wishing that I too could die; it would be so good to lie
there beneath the trees and rest for ever."

"Oh, Lucy, why should you say that?"

"Because I am always so tired," she replied; "so tired and full of
trouble. There was a man here in the fields this afternoon. He had a
harmonium, and he played and sang to the people about there being sweet
rest in heaven. And he talked about Jesus, and how He would forgive us
our sins and take us to heaven if we asked Him; but somehow I didn't
seem to care. I don't know as I want to go to heaven; but I do long to
lie still and be at rest."

"But what would your father do without you, Lucy? Think how it would
grieve him if you died."

"Yes, I suppose it would," she said sadly.

"Of course it would," replied Gus, almost indignantly; "why, there
isn't anything he wouldn't do for you. He is always buying things for
you. There isn't another girl—"

"Oh, Gus, I know!" she interrupted him, with fresh sadness in look and
tone. "But I'd gladly give them up. I'd gladly live on dry bread and go
bare-foot if only I could be sure—that things were honestly come by."

She said the last words very low, as if speaking to herself; but Gus
heard them.

He started, and looked up at her with consternation painted on his face.

"Oh, Lucy, you don't mean—"

"Hush, hush!" she whispered, turning on him a white, frightened face.
"What did I say? I should not have said it. Don't think of it again,
Gus. I did not mean anything, indeed."

"Lucy, you might tell me."

"There is nothing to tell; indeed I know nothing, only I am full of
fear. Please, Gus, never speak of this again. And now come in with
me, and I will give you some supper. Father and Jack will not be home
till late. Do come and cheer me. You shall tell me about the lesson at
Sunday school, and we can read about it in mother's Bible. I have her
Bible, but I seldom read it, because it makes me so sad to think that I
shall never read it to her again."

Gus willingly consented. He said little as they went down the field,
Lucy moving slowly and with difficulty. He was overpowered by the
astounding conviction which had come to him. The doubts suggested by
the affair of the bad florin had received unexpected confirmation. He
felt sure now that Lucas was a dishonest man.



CHAPTER X.

GUS SEES HIS TEACHER AGAIN.

THE summer weeks passed by, and brought little variation into Gus'
life. Only the baby seemed to grow daily heavier, and to weary him more
and more as he dragged him about in the heat. And as the baby's mother
grew more addicted to "taking something," and resting after it, she
thrust every task she could upon the boy who had to "earn his keep."
But Gus never grumbled. He did his best sturdily; he did not lose
patience with the baby, restless, struggling, fretful little mortal
though he was, nor was he ever cross to the other little ones who
called Sally Dent mother. But he prized every leisure moment he could
spend with Lucy.

Sometimes on a Sunday they could get a quiet hour together, and then
they would read from Lucy's Bible some passage in the history of the
Lord Jesus—"the truest gentleman as ever was," as Gus loved to say,
remembering the lady's words. And already the little boy's life was
guided by a conscious effort to follow the example of the highest,
holiest Manhood.

Lucas continued to treat Gus kindly, but Gus did not see much of him or
of his son during the summer weeks. They would often be away from home
for several nights, and Lucy never seemed to know exactly when they
would return. And as Gus saw no fresh indications of anything being
wrong, he ceased to think about those words from Lucy which had so
startled him. He noticed that things seemed less prosperous with Lucas
than formerly. There was not so much butter and jam going, and Lucy's
cookery did not send forth such savoury odours. Perhaps Lucas had given
up his dishonest practices, and was living strictly within his lawful
means. Gus was glad to believe this.

One day, when summer was fairly gone, Lucas asked Gus if he could go
out for a tramp with him and Jack.

Gus had little hope that Sally Dent would let him go, but he ran to ask
her. At first she said she could not spare him; but when she heard that
Lucas wanted him, she gave her consent. Lucas was too good a lodger for
her to risk offending him.

Gus set out in capital spirits. It was a bright autumn day. The air was
fresh and invigorating, the sunshine brilliant. Already the trees were
touched with warm brown and gold, and in the gardens which they passed
the dead leaves lay thick.

Strange to say, Lucas and his son took Gus exactly the same tramp they
had taken him before. He passed and looked with interest on the little
iron schoolroom in which he had had his first experience of a Sunday
school. A little further on was the shop where he had tendered the bad
florin. Gus' cheeks glowed with shame now as he thought of it, and he
slunk quickly past the shop, hoping the woman would not see him.

A little farther on along the road was a large house, "standing in
its own grounds," as the advertisements say. Beyond the garden lay
fields, so that the position of the house was quite isolated. This
house seemed greatly to interest Lucas and his son. They hung about
the gate for some time, furtively watching a gardener who was engaged
in sweeping the lawn. The garden was bright with chrysanthemums and
dahlias, but not prettier than many they had seen; so that Gus wondered
why they lingered there so long. At last they heard a church clock
strike twelve, and soon afterwards the gardener laid down his broom and
disappeared.

"Now, Gus, come with me," said Lucas.

He led him a little way up the shrubbery, till they were almost in
sight of the house; then he said—

"Look here, if you do as I tell you, I'll give you twopence. I want you
to go all round the house—this way, see—till you come to the kitchen
door, where you must knock and ask for a piece of bread."

"I'm not a beggar," said Gus, colouring.

"Well, never mind, ask for a drink of water—anything. Don't be a
duffer. I'll make it sixpence, if you do it to please me; and just keep
your eyes open as you go; see if the windows under the verander come
right down to the ground, and find out if they keep a dog, and whether
there's a man-servant, and what time they have their dinner."

"But who am I to ask?" said Gus, looking bewildered.

"Find out without asking if you can, but if not there's the cook;
surely a pretty boy like you can get round the cook. And not a word
about our being here, mind. Now, off with you."

Gus moved away reluctantly. He did not like the errand; had he had the
least idea for what purpose Lucas desired this information, he would
have refused to seek it.

[Illustration]

He followed the path which ran in front of the verandah. It was not the
direct path to the kitchen, but Lucas had purposely sent him that way.
Yes, the windows beneath the verandah came to the ground; Gus noticed
that, and then, turning the corner of the house, he found himself
before a window of the same description, which stood wide open to the
sunlight, and his unexpected appearance startled a young lady, who sat
just within, and scared away a poor half-starved kitten, to whom she
was giving a saucer of milk. The young lady uttered a faint cry as she
rose quickly; but the next moment she recognised Gus, and smiled on him.

"Why, you are Gus!" she said. "The poor little Gus whom I had in my
class one afternoon. I hoped you would come again, but you have never
been."

"I couldn't get away any more," said Gus.

"And were you coming to see me now?"

"No. I didn't know you lived here. I was going to the kitchen to ask
for a drink of water."

"Will milk do as well?" asked the young lady, filling a glass from a
jug which stood on the table. "Here, sit down and drink it. You look
tired."

Gus gladly seated himself on the step of the window, and the girl, who
evidently thought that he needed to be cared for as much as the starved
kitten, gave him a large slice of cake.

"Now tell me where you live, and what you do with yourself?" she said.

"I live at Glensford," he replied; "that's a long way from here."

"Have you a mother?" she inquired, looking pitifully at Gus' deplorable
attire.

"My mother has been dead a long while, and father died a few months
ago," he said. "I live with Mrs. Dent, and mind her baby."

"Poor child!" said the young lady. Her voice was soft and caressing as
she said this, and Gus thought he had never seen such sweet blue eyes
as those that were bent on him. And she, at the same time, was struck
with the beauty of his large, innocent blue eyes.

"My father and mother are living," she said; "but they are in India.
That is a great way off."

"And you live here?" said Gus, suddenly remembering that he was there
to gather information.

"Yes, in my grandfather's home."

"It's a big house," said Gus, glancing round. "I s'pose you don't live
here all by yourself?"

"Certainly not," said the girl, laughing. "An aunt, my father's sister,
is here for a while, taking care of me, and there are the three
servants besides."

"No man?" asked Gus.

"No man-servant, if that is what you mean; but my grandfather of course
lives here, only just now he is away on a visit."

"Oh," said Gus. So far he had had no difficulty in getting the
information he wanted, and just at that moment the kitten came creeping
round the corner of the window.

"Here's your kitten," said Gus.

"It's not my kitten," said the girl; "it's a poor stray thing."

"Haven't you got a kitten of your own?" asked Gus.

"No," she replied; "I think I must adopt this one."

"P'raps you've a dog?" he suggested.

"No, I have not," she replied. "We had a splendid dog here—dear old
Towser—but he died in the spring, and grandpapa has not yet got
another. He was such a good house-dog; it is a pity he died."

"It is," said Gus, quite innocently. He had finished his cake, and he
remembered that Lucas and Jack were waiting for him; but on his own
account, he felt in no hurry to depart.

"Take another piece of cake," said the young lady; "I am sure you must
be hungry."

"No more, thank you," said Gus. "I must be going. I was hungry, for
it's about the time we have our dinner."

"What, at twelve o'clock? That seems very early to me."

"Does it?" said Gus. "What time do you have your dinner then?"

"Not till seven o'clock in the evening; but we have a meal in the
middle of the day which is almost like a dinner."

"Two dinners! My word!" exclaimed Gus in amazement; but ere he could
say more, a lady entered the room into which he was gazing. She was
tall, angular, and severe of aspect. She had a very high nose, and very
thin lips, and very cold eyes. She advanced with much dignity till she
observed the open window and the ragged boy seated on the sill. Then
she threw up her hands, and gave a scream.

"Good gracious, Edith! What have you here?"

"Only a poor little boy, aunt; he came to my class one afternoon,"
Edith began hurriedly to explain.

But her aunt scarce heeded her words.

"How could you?" she said reproachfully. "Is this the time, when we are
left without a protector, to encourage a young scamp like this to come
to the house? There is no knowing what may come of it. He may—there,
be off with you, boy; you'll get nothing more here. Be off; we want no
tramps here; we'll set the dog at you, if you don't move quickly!"

And as Gus hastily sprang up, she pushed to the glass doors and bolted
them.

"Oh, aunt!" cried Edith, unable to help laughing, though she was vexed,
"How could you say that, when you know we have no dog?"

"My dear, I said it with a purpose. I don't want him to come here and
murder us all in our beds. It is not that I am nervous—you know I am
not nervous—but one must be cautious. You should not have let him sit
there. He may have brought scarlet fever or small-pox. I will tell Jane
to scrub that window-sill." And she rang the bell sharply to summon the
housemaid.

"What a pity!" murmured Edith to herself. "I wanted to get him some
better clothes, and now aunt has frightened him away there is no
knowing when I shall see him again."

Meanwhile Gus was hurrying to the gate as fast as his feet could carry
him. Lucas stood awaiting him uneasily, but his face brightened when he
saw Gus approaching.

"Well, youngster, you've been a long while," he said. "I began to be
afraid something had happened. It's to be hoped you've made good use of
the time."

Gus told how kind the young lady had been to him, and repeated all that
had passed between them. As he did so Jack appeared; he had been across
the fields to take a survey of the house from the back.

Lucas burst out laughing when Gus told how he had learned that there
was no dog belonging to the house. "Upon my word," he said, patting
Gus on the back, "you're a well-plucked one; we'll send you on that
business again. He couldn't have done it better, could he, Jack?"

Jack chuckled, but suggested that they had better be moving on. So they
turned towards home again.

Apparently their purpose in coming out was accomplished. Both Lucas and
his son seemed greatly entertained and pleased at what had happened.
Gus could not understand much that they said to each other as they
walked along. They seemed to be laying plans of some kind. Once Jack
said emphatically, with a nod in the direction of Gus, "Things will go
all right, if you keep him out of it, not unless."

Whereupon Lucas turned angrily upon his son, being clearly of another
opinion. Whatever was the matter in dispute, they continued to wrangle
over it all the way home. Gus could not understand what it was they
were quarrelling about, but he had an uneasy consciousness that it
somehow concerned himself.



CHAPTER XI.

LUCAS' "JOB."

THE next morning at an early hour Lucas went forth with his workman's
bag upon his shoulder. Gus heard him tell Sally Dent that he had had
the luck to get a good job of work, which would probably keep him out
till late at night. Then, beckoning Gus to walk beside him a few steps,
Lucas said to him, as soon as they were beyond the houses, and no one
was within hearing—

"Look here, Gus; I want your help in a job I have in hand to-night.
If you're a good little chap, and do what you're told, and ask no
questions, I'll give you a bob, a whole bob, for yourself, do you hear?"

Gus nodded, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. It was rare good
fortune for him to have the chance of earning a shilling.

"Can I do the work, do you think?" he asked anxiously. "Is it easy?"

"Oh, your part's easy enough," said Lucas, with a laugh. "All you've
got to do is to obey orders. Now listen to me. Jack will bring you this
evening to meet me. You must leave home at six o'clock—not a minute
later. Now mind, I depend on your coming, and you must not disappoint
me. If you've got the baby to mind, you can give it to Lucy, and she
will look after it. Now promise me that you will come."

"I'll come," said Gus; "I'll be sure to come; but what am I to do?"

"Never mind what you have to do; I'll show you when you come. You are
to do whatever I tell you, do you hear?"

"Yes," said Gus; and with that Lucas dismissed him, and the boy ran
back to the house.

Gus wondered many times that day what the work could be for which Lucas
needed his help. In the afternoon, Sally Dent gave the baby to his
care, and when evening came, she lay in a drunken slumber. Gus amused
the baby and kept the other children quiet till it wanted but a few
minutes to six o'clock. Then, with the baby in his arms, he knocked at
Lucy's door.

Lucy opened the door a little way and looked out; then, seeing it was
Gus, she opened the door wider, and invited him to come in. Jack was
seated at the table, hastily devouring a substantial meal.

"So you've come," he said, nodding to Gus; "that's right. We must be
off in a minute or two."

"Is Gus going out with you?" asked Lucy in surprise.

Her brother only nodded.

"Yes, I'm going," said Gus; "and I've brought you the baby, because
Mrs. Dent's asleep, and there's no one to mind him. I hope you won't
find him a trouble; your father said you'd take him."

He held the baby out to Lucy as he spoke, but she had turned very
white, and seemed to have lost all strength. Instead of attempting to
take the baby she sank on to a chair, weak and trembling.

"Ah, I see you're not strong enough to hold him," said Gus, full of
sympathy. "He is heavy; but perhaps he will lie on the rug for a
bit. He'll keep quiet sometimes if you give him something to suck.
A potato's as good as anything. I wish you needn't have him, but I
promised your father I'd go."

"And you'd better keep that promise, and any other you've made to my
father, let me tell you," said Jack significantly.

A shiver ran through Lucy's slender frame, but she controlled herself
and said—

"Have you had your supper, Gus?"

"No," said the boy, looking wistfully at the well-spread table.

"You must have some then," she said quickly; "you cannot go out without
having eaten."

"Give him a hunch of bread, and let him eat it as he goes along," said
Jack, rising from the table as he spoke.

Lucy began to cut some bread and butter, whilst Gus carefully placed
the baby on the hearth-rug and gave him a spoon to amuse himself with.
Having buttered two thick pieces, Lucy placed between them a slice
of cold bacon; then, as she thrust the whole into Gus' hand, she
whispered, "Oh, Gus, I wish you were not going with them! Be careful;
oh, do be careful!"

"Now then, are you coming?" cried Jack roughly from the door.

Gus could not reply to Lucy. He felt uneasy as he hurried after Jack,
and he wondered why Lucy had bidden him to be careful. Did she know
more about the evening's job than he?

For a while Gus and Jack trudged on in silence. Gus had often to break
into a trot in order to keep up with Jack's long strides. They took
the way Gus now knew so well, and which he had twice before trodden in
Jack's company. The day had been dull, and night was closing in early.
A grey mist was creeping over the fields, and the wind, which blew in
their faces, brought with it tiny drops of rain.

When they had gone some distance, and were in a lonely part of the
road, Jack suddenly halted beneath a lamp-post, and drew something from
beneath his coat.

"There, lad, do you know what that is?" he inquired, pointing at Gus
the thing he held.

Gus recoiled in a manner that showed he knew it to be a deadly weapon.

"Ah, I see you do know," said Jack coolly; "that's my father's
revolver, and I'd have you know he'll think nothing of turning it
against you if you do not please him in this night's business. He'll
just hold it like that and fire, and you'll be as dead as a door-nail
in half a second."

Gus trembled at the prospect. Having shown him this incentive to
obedience, Jack put the firearm back into its place, and they marched
on again. A little further, in the darkest part of the road, Lucas met
them.

"Here you are then," he said in a tone of relief. "You are a little
late; I began to fear something had gone wrong. The dinner-bell has
rung. We need not have feared it would not be dark enough by seven.
I've got a ladder that the painters left in the garden below. Things
are all as square as possible, and in another ten minutes it will be
safe."

They went on a few steps, and then halted at a gate. The place seemed
familiar to Gus.

"You wait here," said Lucas, "whilst Jack and I go in; I'll come for
you in a minute. Have you brought my revolver, Jack?"

Gus saw the revolver handed over to Lucas. His heart misgave him. How
he wished the night's business was over!

Jack and Lucas passed into the shrubbery, and Gus stood alone, cold and
miserable. The mysterious character of Lucas' proceedings alarmed him.
He longed to run away, but he dared not, and the next minute Lucas was
again by his side.

"Now come with me," he said; "and, mind you, if you don't do exactly as
I tell you, it will be the worse for you. You are not to ask questions,
but just to do as I tell you; do you hear?"

"Yes," said Gus; but he felt sick at heart as Lucas hurried him up the
garden.

Gus saw dimly before him a long, low house, with a verandah. In spite
of the gathering mist, he recognised it as the house in which Miss
Edith lived. There was the window where, on the previous morning, he
had sat and been regaled with cake and milk. The window was closed and
shuttered now, and so were all the windows on the ground-floor. But at
the side of the house was a small window, which was open a little way.
Against this a ladder had been placed.

"Take off your shoes," said Lucas to Gus.

The boy obeyed trembling.

"Now, Gus," said Lucas in low, deliberate tones, which nevertheless
had a certain thrill of excitement, "you're to go up that ladder and
get in at that window. You will find yourself in the bath-room of the
house. The door is open, and you can pass out into the passage, and go
into all the bedrooms on this side the house. You must look quickly
round the room, and take everything of value. If there's a watch on the
dressing-table take it; every brooch, every ring take. Slip them into
your pocket, and bring them to me. Now see how cleverly you can manage
it."

Gus heard him in the utmost bewilderment and terror.

"That would be stealing!" he cried. "Oh, I can't steal!"

"Hold your tongue!" cried Lucas, shaking him roughly; "it's not
stealing—at least it is not your stealing, it's mine. The window is too
small for me to get through, so you do it for me."

"Oh, I can't do it; don't ask me!" cried Gus.

"You can, and you shall," said Lucas. "What are you afraid of? The
family's in the dining-room having dinner, the parlour-maid is waiting
on them, the cook's busy in the kitchen, and the housemaid has gone for
a holiday. No one will hear you; you can get all there is, and be back
in five minutes. Go along with you."

"I can't!" cried Gus, falling on his knees before the man. "I can't do
that! Please, Mr. Lucas, do not ask me! Indeed, I cannot steal!"

"There, what did I tell you?" said Jack, turning to his father.
"There's no doing anything with a boy like that. I said he would spoil
it all, and so he has."

"But he shall not spoil it!" cried Lucas fiercely. "I'll see to that.
Gus, you go up that ladder and do as I tell you, or, as sure as I stand
here, I'll blow your brains out. See—" and he drew out his revolver—"if
you do not go at once, I'll fire. Now, are you going?"

The aspect of the man was so fierce, he looked so capable of executing
his threat, that instinctively Gus shrank from him and turned towards
the ladder. Jack pushed him on to the lowest rung, and feeling that
the weapon was still pointed at him, Gus went up the ladder, closely
followed by Jack.

"Go on, go on," said Lucas, "or I fire."

Jack opened the window as wide as he could, and helped Gus to get into
the room.

"Now go on," said Jack, pointing to the door. "Go through all the
rooms, and be sharp back. We'll half kill you, if you don't bring all
you can find!"

Thus urged, Gus passed out of the bath-room into the passage, and Jack
waited nervously for his return. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, but
the boy did not return.

"What can be keeping him so long?" asked Lucas anxiously, at the foot
of the ladder. "They'll have done dinner directly. Can't you whistle to
him?"

"It's hardly safe; some one might hear," said Jack. Nevertheless, he
attempted a soft whistle.

"Can they have got hold of him?" asked Lucas nervously. "We must be off
if he does not soon appear."

"Little humbug! I said he would spoil all," returned Jack. "What's to
be done?"

At that moment there was the sound of a window opening at the other
side of the house, followed by what seemed like a splash and a faint
scream. Almost instantly another window was thrown up with a noise, and
a female voice screamed shrilly, "Help, help! Thieves! Murder! Help!"

Jack was down the ladder in a second.

"Confound him, it is all up!" cried Lucas; and waiting only to throw
the ladder into the shrubbery, they were off.



CHAPTER XII.

A GAME OF "HIDE-AND-SEEK."

PASSING out of Jack's sight, Gus found himself in a dimly lighted
corridor, on to which several rooms opened. It was a relief to get away
from Jack; but yet Gus felt his position to be embarrassing in the
extreme. Here he was in Miss Edith's home, where he had no right to be,
and for a purpose the very thought of which made him tingle all over
with shame.

But Lucas had made a grand mistake in supposing that Gus was to be
driven by bribe or threat to take part in a burglary. He would rather
have died than have laid his hand on any of Miss Edith's possessions.

"He may kill me if he likes," Gus said to himself, though not without a
shiver at the thought, "but he shall not make me steal."

At the moment Gus was creeping cautiously along the corridor, moved
by a desire to get as far from Jack as possible. Suddenly he resolved
that he would not go back to the men who awaited him outside. He would
look about him for some hole or corner in which he could hide till the
morning. Lucas could not force him to come out; he could not make his
way into the house in search of him. The criminal object which had
brought Lucas and his son to the house gave Gus an advantage over them.
It would be easy, Gus thought, to tell Miss Edith all in the morning,
and ask her to protect him from the rage of Lucas and his son.

Perfect stillness reigned in the house as Gus cautiously stepped along
the passage, his shoeless feet making no sound on the thick carpet.
He came to a door which stood partly open, and peeping round it saw a
large and comfortably furnished bedroom, lighted by the glow from a
bright fire. The gleam shone on the dressing-table, with its handsome
toilet mirror, dainty drapery and ornaments, and Gus saw there a gold
watch hanging on a pretty stand.

"Ah, Lucas would like that," he said to himself, and passed on smiling.
But in vain he looked about for some place in which he could hide.
Oh for some cupboard or recess in which he could lie safely till the
morning!

He had reached the end of the corridor, and stood at the head of the
stairs. To the right a narrow passage turned off. It was almost in
darkness, and Gus stole along it, hoping to find the shelter he sought.

Presently he became aware that he was close to the head of a narrow
staircase; a light flashed in his face, and he saw a portly female
form, bearing a lighted candle, slowly ascending.

Gus started off in the darkness, fell over a pail, and made a clatter
which caused the woman to scream in alarm, dashed through the first
open doorway, and found himself in a small bedroom. There was no
place to hide, nor any way of escape save through the window. It was
unhasped, and Gus threw it up in a moment. In the dim light he could
see some kind of platform below, and he sprang out. He jumped on to the
thin and rather rotten planks which covered the top of a cistern. They
gave way with him, and with a faint cry Gus fell through into the cold
water. Happily the cistern was only half full, and in a few moments he
had scrambled out again. But crouching behind the cistern on the narrow
sloping roof, he found himself in considerable peril.

The woman he had startled had been too frightened to follow him; but
now she threw up the landing window, and screamed lustily for help.

"'Elp, 'elp! Thieves! Murder 'elp!" she screamed; and then Gus heard
the sound of steps hurrying to her assistance.

"Oh, cook! What is it? Whatever is the matter?" cried a voice, which
Gus recognised as Miss Edith's.

"Cook, cook, control yourself; it is absurd to give way like this! I
insist upon knowing what has happened!" said some one, uttering the
words in very shaky accents.

"It's burglars, mum; it's 'ouse-breakers!" sobbed the cook. "I see'd
'em, miss, as true as I'm a-standin 'ere—leastways I 'eard 'em. There
was some one rushed along the passage in front of me, and out o' that
winder. He fell into the cistern, he did, and he's just got out. I
'card 'im a-shakin' 'isself not a minute agone."

"Burglars! Good gracious! And we without a man in the house! Oh, Edith!
What will become of us? I said it was wrong of the colonel to leave
us so unprotected. Some one must fetch a policeman; the house must be
searched. Martha, you must fetch a policeman."

"That's easier said than done, if you'll excuse me, ma'am," said
Martha, evidently shrinking from the task. "For my part, I don't
believe there's been no man here. I don't suppose cook saw anything
bigger than a cat. She's so nervous, she's frightened at her own
shadow, cook is."

"A cat! Are you a cat?" returned the cook, indignantly. "I tell you it
was a full-grown man as comed along the passage. He fell over the pail,
and I 'eard 'im swear, I did. He's down there now somewhere, I'll be
bound. You get a lantern and see."

"No, thank you," said Martha, drawing back; "I am not going on to that
roof, if I know it. I won't risk my neck for the sake of any burglar."

"Perhaps it was a stray cat," said Edith, catching at the suggestion.
"I daresay Mary left her window open, and so it got in. A cat can
startle one dreadfully, and things seem so much larger when you cannot
see them properly."

"The house must be searched," said her aunt solemnly. "I cannot close
my eyes to-night till I know every corner of the house and grounds has
been searched. I am not nervous, as you know; but this is a serious
matter. I insist upon some one's fetching a policeman."

"As sure as I'm a livin' woman, it was no cat," muttered cook under her
breath.

"I suppose I had better go in search of a policeman," said Edith. "I
can see Martha is not inclined to do so, and cook is far too upset."

"You, Edith! You must not go; I cannot have you leave me! Suppose the
man should appear when I was alone!"

"Why, then, auntie, you would be equal to the occasion, no doubt."

"Had we not better ring the alarm bell?" suggested Martha. "Mr.
Thornton's valet, which is a very civil young man, would be sure to
come across to know what was the matter."

"I have no doubt he would," said Edith, who was aware that the young
man in question was enamoured of Martha.

Miss Durrant, who of late had exercised much ingenuity in devising
means of preventing Martha from seeing Mr. Thornton's valet, now caught
eagerly at the maid's suggestion.

Martha accordingly hurried off to ring the bell, and the others drew
back from the raw, cold atmosphere of the night, cook finally closing
the windows, lest the burglar should be disposed to return.

Shaking with cold and fear, Gus could hardly keep himself from falling
from the roof. What should he do? He must get away somehow—but how?
Crouching low, and supporting himself on his hands, he looked over the
edge of the gutter. Immediately below was a small square window. Having
first wrung all the water he could from his ragged clothes, and shaken
himself thoroughly, Gus tightly clutched the gutter and swung himself
off the roof, and after hanging perilously for a moment or two, managed
to get his feet planted on the narrow window-sill below. Happily the
window was open an inch or two at the bottom. Steadying himself against
the wall with one hand, Gus, in extreme peril of falling headlong,
pushed up the lower window-sash with the other.

The next moment, feet foremost, he fell rather than climbed through the
window. A roll of carpet broke his fall, and gathering himself up, he
found he was in a small room full of boxes and other lumber. He made
some noise as he tumbled over these on his way to the door, but the
sound was lost in the clamour of the alarm bell, which Martha was now
pulling lustily.

Gus was at a loss what to do. If the house were immediately searched,
there was little hope that he could escape detection, and though he had
previously thought it would be easy to tell everything to Miss Edith,
he had now a horror of being dragged forth before all the household,
and branded as a young housebreaker. If only he could find his way back
to the bath-room window, and descend by the ladder!

Opening the door of the lumber-room as gently as possible, he stole
into the passage. There was no one about, for Miss Durrant had
forbidden any one to go through the house at present, and she and Edith
had returned to the dining-room. Cook was keeping watch at her bedroom
window, and Martha was at the top of the attic stairs pulling the bell.

Swiftly and noiselessly the boy glided along the passage, ascended a
short flight of stairs, and found himself again in the corridor where
was the bath-room. But though the window stood open, the ladder was
gone. Gus leaned out, but could see nothing in the darkness. He knew
that the window was too high above the ground for him to venture a leap.

Clearly, Lucas and his son had decamped and left him to his fate. Gus
closed the window, and turned away in despair. What should he do?

Just then the sudden opening of a door, a blast of cold air through
the house, and the sound of excited voices below, assured Gus that Mr.
Thornton's valet had arrived, and was receiving a warm welcome from the
unprotected females. No time was to be lost. Gus fled desperately along
the corridor.

The warm glow from the fire-lit bedroom seemed to invite him. Wet and
shivering, Gus ran instinctively to the glowing hearth, and for a few
moments forgot his embarrassing position in the delight of warming
himself. Then he became aware of steps and voices on the stairs. A
procession was approaching armed with fireirons, and headed by Mr.
Thornton's valet, flourishing the kitchen poker.

[Illustration]

"I must beg you to search thoroughly every room," Miss Durrant was
saying. "It is not that I am nervous, but I think it only right to
satisfy ourselves that there is no man concealed upon the premises."

"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure," the valet replied. "I only wish I
could ketch the man; but I'm afraid he's had time to get away."

Gus could not see the fierce manner in which the valet brandished
his weapon as he spoke; but the words were enough. With a hare-like
instinct, the boy rushed for the nearest covert. Between him and the
door was the bed. Curtains hung at the head, the sheet was folded back,
the large downy pillows, with frilled edges, were invitingly exposed.
Straight at the bed dashed Gus.

As he slipped behind the curtain, his quick eyes saw an aperture at the
back of the pillows which seemed to offer him a hiding-place. Quick
as thought, he sprang up, and wriggled himself along till he lay, as
small as possible, between the bolster and the wooden board at the head
of the bedstead. Had he not been very thin and slight, he could not
have worked himself into such a position without disarranging the bed.
But with such eel-like dexterity did he move that when, a few minutes
later, the armed force entered the room, the bed looked pretty much as
the housemaid had left it before she went out.

The valet, poker in hand, advanced into the room, followed by Martha,
who carried the tongs. Then came Miss Durrant, who had armed herself
with a finely polished brass poker, one of the ornamental kind which
rarely see actual service; next was cook, and Edith brought up the
rear, because no one else was willing to come last, there being a
general impression that if the burglar were passed by the van-guard, he
would be likely to fall upon the rear.

The valet courageously looked under the bed and under the skirt of the
dressing-table. At Miss Durrant's suggestion, he opened her wardrobe,
and passed his hand through the dresses that hung there. Emboldened by
his example, cook passed her hand cautiously over the surface of the
feather-bed, but did not think of looking behind the pillows, though
it did occur to her to look in the coal-box, which could not have
sheltered a "Tom Thumb" of burglars.

"I can't help thinking it was nothing but an old cat," remarked Martha,
keeping, in spite of this assertion, close to the side of their gallant
protector.

"You think it a cat, do you?" replied cook, with a snort. "Well, all I
can say is, I never knew before that you was so mighty afraid of cats.
One would think you was a mouse."

The resources of Miss Durrant's room seeming to be exhausted, the band
passed on to the next. Gus, who had hardly dared to breathe whilst they
were in the room, drew a long sigh of relief as he heard them passing
up the corridor.

Tramp, tramp, tramp went the procession, now in the servants' rooms,
now in the attic, finally descending again to the lower regions. The
valet, who had got out on the roof and examined the cistern, was
certain that some living creature had fallen into it; but the splashes
on the slates and the shattered plank gave no conclusive evidence as
to the size and nature of the intruder. He readily adopted the idea
suggested by Martha, and amused himself with twitting the cook with
having mistaken a cat for a man.

The policeman, who arrived late at the scene of excitement, leaned
towards the same opinion; and though he went round the grounds with his
bull's-eye, failed to discover the ladder hidden amongst the shrubs, or
to see any traces of the burglars.

Martha's explanation was accepted by every one save the cook. Miss
Durrant even went so far as to say she was certain it was a cat, and
that if cook had only exercised proper self-control the house and
neighbourhood need not have been alarmed. She repudiated the idea of
being nervous herself, but was, nevertheless, very restless and fidgety
during the remainder of the evening.

As the commotion in the house gradually died away, Gus no longer
listened intently to every sound. Drowsiness crept over him as he lay
warm and snug behind the pillows. At last, notwithstanding every cause
for uneasiness, he fell fast asleep.



CHAPTER XIII.

AN INNOCENT BURGLAR.

HOW long Gus had slept, he could not have told, when he was awakened
by the sound of voices in the room. For a moment he imagined, with a
thrill of fear, that Lucas and Jack were at hand, ready to execute the
violent threats with which they had driven him into the house. But the
voices, one high and thin, the other low and sweet, could not well be
mistaken for those of men. Hot and half-suffocated in the narrow space
in which he lay, Gus gradually remembered how he came to be in such a
position, and knew that the voices he heard were those of Miss Durrant
and her niece.

"I feel convinced now, Edith, that it was only a cat."

"That is very likely, aunt."

"You have looked under the bed, Edith?"

"Yes, and there is certainly no cat there."

"No; there is really nothing to be alarmed at. I am not at all nervous,
still, I am glad that Mr. Thornton has allowed his man to sleep below
to-night. It is well to have a man on the premises."

"Yes, in case the cat should create another disturbance."

"Or cook be ridiculous again."

"Martha seemed in more danger of such an attack when they went to bed;
but in either case the eloquence of Mr. Thornton's valet would be of
service."

"It is a strange thing," said Miss Durrant thoughtfully, without
heeding her niece's words. "I should much like to know what it really
was that jumped out of the window and fell into the cistern."

At that moment a curious muffled sound came from the back of the
bedstead. A sudden sense of the absurdity of the situation had smitten
Gus, and a laugh escaped him almost unawares.

"What is that?" exclaimed Miss Durrant, with a start. "Edith, did you
hear it?"

"I noticed nothing, aunt. What sort of noise did you hear? I daresay it
was only a mouse."

"A mouse! How can you name such a thing to me, Edith? You know I should
faint if I saw a mouse."

"Would you, aunt—you, with all your self-control! Is a mouse so much
worse than a cat?"

"Don't laugh at me, Edith. I am not nervous of ordinary things, but I
cannot endure a mouse. There! What was that?"

"It was only the bedstead that creaked; old furniture will creak
sometimes, you know," Edith replied.

"Well, I have been thinking that in case there should be any
disturbance to-night, it would be nice—don't you think so?—for us to
be together. It is not that I am nervous; but you have a cold, and you
would be warmer here than in your own room, so I think you had better
come and sleep with me."

"Very well, aunt, if you wish it; but I really do not think you need
fear another disturbance. However, if you feel nervous—"

"I am not nervous, Edith; you mistake me quite, if you think that. It
was only that I thought you, with your cold, would be better here."

"Oh, my cold is almost gone, so if that is all, I would rather sleep in
my own room. Good-night, aunt. There is nothing to be afraid of now."

"I am aware of that, thank you. Good-night, Edith," said her aunt, in
rather severe accents.

She followed her niece to the door, which she closed after her, and
secured both by lock and bolt. Then casting a nervous glance round her,
she began to take off her dress.

Whilst aunt and niece had been talking, Gus had been wriggling about
in search of some loophole that would afford him a view into the room.
None such presenting itself, he drew himself to the edge of the bed,
and cautiously thrust out his head. Even so it was not easy to see, and
his position was perilous in the extreme, as he tried to turn his head
so as to get a look into the room.

By the time he had succeeded in so poising himself that he could see
what was going on, the lady stood at her dressing-table, engaged in
brushing her hair. In her young days, her abundant brown tresses
had been much admired. They were no longer abundant, and their hue
had faded, but their possessor, scarce conscious of the change Time
had wrought, took pride in them still. She stood before her mirror
regarding complacently the reflection it presented whilst she slowly
brushed her hair. Every now and then she paused for a few moments of
breathless listening; but no sound broke the stillness of the house,
and gradually the fears that haunted her grew less insistent. At last,
with a sigh, she laid down the brush, rolled her hair into a neat
little knob at the back of her head, and then moved to the fireside to
warm her feet before going to bed.

And now Gus became seriously uneasy. He was tired of lying in that
close, cramped position; he could not remain there all night. Besides,
he had grave misgivings as to how his position would be affected by the
lady's getting into bed. Would her head rest less easily because he lay
there behind the bolster? Would she be likely to discover his presence?

It seemed to Gus that his position would be improved if he could manage
to slip noiselessly out of the bed, and hide himself beneath it for the
rest of the night. So he edged himself further and further out of the
bed, till quite half his body was exposed to view behind the curtain,
and his hands firmly rested on the floor. But how to draw out his legs
and drop down and out of sight without making any noise was a difficult
problem.

[Illustration]

And just as he became aware of the exceeding difficulty of his
position, Miss Durrant rose, and moved towards the bed. Gus tried to
wriggle back into his lair, but that was not to be done in a moment.
The lady was conscious of a strange movement behind the curtain. She
drew it aside, then, arrested by terror, stood for a moment staring
into the eyes that met hers; the next she shrieked wildly, and ran for
the door. She struggled desperately with lock and bolt; she tore the
door open; she rushed into the passage, screaming at the top of her
voice:

"Murder, murder!"

A second or two of silence, and then a sudden rush and stir through the
house. Doors opened, voices, steps made themselves heard. Edith was the
first to appear in response to those wild screams. She came running
from her room, white and trembling from the shock of alarm; but she was
brave.

"A man in my room! A man in my bed!" shrieked her aunt, like one
distracted. "In my very bed—waiting to murder me! Don't go in, Edith;
don't go near! He'll kill you! Oh, where is that man-servant?"

The individual demanded appeared at that moment. He was armed with the
poker, but he looked white and dazed.

"Where is he?" he asked, his teeth chattering as he spoke.

"Don't go in, Mr. Simpkins—don't, now!" cried Martha imploringly, from
over the banisters. "He's a ferocious burglar, and he'll brain you—for
a dead certainty he will. Go and fetch a policeman, but don't go in
yourself."

Mr. Simpkins did not like the prospect of being brained, and the advice
struck him as excellent.

"Well, I am only one man," he admitted, as though it were possible he
had been mistaken for half a dozen; "so perhaps it would be best to
make fast the door, and go in search of a policeman."

"You must not leave us, Mr. Simpkins; we cannot be left!" cried a
chorus of female voices, and Miss Durrant sobbed out that they might
all be murdered before he came back.

"We'll lock the door, any way," said Simpkins, with reviving spirits.
"Where's the key?"

The key was of course on the other side of the door. Miss Durrant had
slammed the door behind her as she rushed from the room.

Simpkins looked at the door, and hesitated. Edith, whose wits were not
paralysed by fright, had observed that all this while no sound came
from the room. Neither window nor door had been opened. She began to
feel incredulous concerning her aunt's burglar.

"I'll get the key," she said; "I'm not afraid to open the door. I
daresay it is only another cat."

"A cat, Edith!" cried her aunt indignantly. "Why, I saw the man's
eyes—such fierce eyes—gleaming at me, and his hair all tangled over his
face. Oh, Edith!"

For Edith at that moment opened the door, and peeped cautiously round
it. She saw the burglar at once. He had emerged from his hiding-place,
feeling further concealment useless, and now stood on the hearth-rug in
his ragged, clinging garments, with his fair hair falling disordered
over his face, which expressed the utmost confusion and shame.

"Why, it's a boy!" said Edith, and she advanced into the room.

Gus came forward to meet her, his hands outstretched imploringly. "Oh,
teacher, I'm so sorry!" he said. "I would not have come, but I couldn't
help it. Lucas brought me; he made me come into the house."

"You young scoundrel!" cried Simpkins, valiant once more, as he came
forward and seized the lad roughly. "I'll teach you to find your way
into people's houses; I'll give you up to the police! Now, tell me,
what have you taken?"

"I have touched nothing," said Gus. "Lucas told me to take the watches
and things; but I would not do it. I would rather die!"

"A likely story that!" said the valet, with a sneer.

"I believe him," said Edith. "I know this boy; he was in my class one
Sunday, and he came here the other day. Now, Gus, tell me all about it."

Encouraged by her kindness, Gus simply and without hesitation told the
whole story of his acquaintance with Lucas, and how Lucas had first
brought him to the house to make inquiries, and to-night had tried
to make a tool of him, in order to gain possession of the ladies'
valuables.

Miss Durrant had fled to the top of the house when Edith opened the
door of her bedroom, but presently she found courage to return, and
when she saw the diminutive proportions of the burglar, her dignity
also revived.

"You will remember, Edith," she said, "that I told you how dangerous it
was to encourage such a young scamp."

"You did, aunt," said her niece quietly; "but I cannot believe that
this boy came here with an evil purpose."

"He's told you a parcel of lies, that's what he's a-done," said
Simpkins. "I'll take him right away to the police-station; it ain't too
late."

"Yes, take him; take him by all means," said Miss Durrant; and Edith in
vain remonstrated.

But for the faithful Martha, who protested that it was not safe for Mr.
Simpkins to go alone, since some of the gang might be lurking at hand
ready to rescue the boy at the cost of Mr. Simpkins' life, Gus would
have soon been consigned into the hands of the guardians of the peace.

"Let's lock him in the cellar for the night," suggested the humane
Martha; "he can't do no harm there, and he can't possibly get out."

"But the cold, Martha," said Edith; "the cellar will be miserably cold."

"Oh, I'll warm him, the young scoundrel!" said Simpkins, giving Gus a
premonitory shake.

"Stay, Simpkins, I cannot have him ill-treated," said Edith firmly.
"You must make him a warm bed in the cellar, if you put him there for
the night. And, Martha, see that he has something warm to put on in
the place of these damp clothes. I rely on you to attend to my wishes.
To-morrow morning grandpapa will return, and he will decide what shall
be done with the poor little prisoner."

Miss Edith was a favourite with her grandfather's servants, and Martha
would not lightly disregard her wishes. Simpkins held the boy by one
arm, and Martha grasped the other, and they marched him off between
them.



CHAPTER XIV.

GOOD-BYE TO LAVENDER TERRACE.

THERE was considerable excitement in the house the next morning. As
early as possible, the police were informed of the attempted burglary;
but so much time had been lost that it seemed doubtful if they would
succeed in tracing Lucas and his son. The ladder they had used was
discovered lying against the wall at the back of the shrubbery, but
further sign of them there was none. Doubtless they had made their
escape across the fields which lay at the back of the house, and
hastened to another part of London.

Policemen were about the colonel's house in the morning; they searched
the grounds, asked questions, and made various suggestions, but without
much result. Gus was questioned and cross-questioned, but his story
never varied. He told it with such simple directness and with such a
guileless look in his blue eyes, that even the policemen, accustomed to
believe the worst of human nature, were impressed with a belief in his
truth.

At an early hour, two policemen surprised Sally Dent by a visit. She
pointed out her lodger's room to them, and said that she believed he
was not yet up. The door was indeed locked; but in vain the policemen
knocked on it and shook it. No sound came from within; and when they
burst it open, lo, the birds had flown! They must have made their way
out by the window, and across the low wall of the garden. They had left
little of value behind, and Lucas had neglected to pay his last week's
rent—a fact which destroyed Sally's faith in the old saying of there
being honour amongst thieves.

Sally could remember that her lodger had come in some time during the
evening with his workman's bag over his shoulder, and had bidden her
"good-night" as he turned into his room; but she was uncertain as to
the exact hour of his return. Her head was apt to be in rather a hazy
condition at that period of the day.

"It might have been eight o'clock; it might have been half-past; it
might have been nine; I really could not say. A civil-spoken man was
Lucas," Sally said. "If indeed he were a burglar, I have never been
more deceived in a man in all my life. And Gus, too! To think of what
I have done for that lad, and he must needs go and take up with a lot
of thieves! But have had enough of him; he shall never darken my doors
again—a good-for-nothing young rascal! I'll let him know that I will
only have honest folk here."

"The little lad's honest enough, if all's true that he says," replied
one of the policemen. "It's a common dodge of them burglars to make a
child their tool; but I think these got hold of one of the wrong sort."

About noon, Edith's grandfather returned to his disquieted household.
Colonel Carruthers had seen service in the Crimea, and was now past
seventy years of age; but his tall, slight figure still retained its
erect, soldierly bearing, and his eyes their keen, bright glance. His
expression was somewhat stern, his manner haughty; but the man was
kinder than he appeared. He had known sore disappointment and pain in
earlier days, and the trial had hardened his demeanour, and perhaps
intensified his pride; but beneath this surface severity was concealed
a warm heart—a heart that could feel the sorrows of others, a heart
that could love faithfully and long. Very dear to the old colonel was
his grandchild, Edith Durrant, the child of his only daughter.

The colonel listened with some impatience to Miss Durrant's account
of the alarm of the past night, and did not hesitate to interrupt her
now and again with a short, sharp question. He had never much patience
with poor Miss Durrant; her fussiness annoyed him. Yet she had good
cause to be grateful to the colonel. He had delivered her from the
ill-paid, thankless position of a fine lady's companion, and given her
a comfortable home as the mistress of his house and guardian of his
young granddaughter, the eldest child of her brother, who was in India
with his regiment.

"Where is the young rascal?" asked Colonel Carruthers, when he had been
told the whole story.

He spoke gravely; but there was an amused gleam in his eyes, which
Edith understood.

"He is downstairs, grandpapa," she replied; "the policeman wanted to
take him away, but I thought you would like to see him."

"Like to see him, indeed! I don't know that I particularly care to see
the young rogue."

"He is not at all the kind of boy you would think," said Edith. "I'll
tell them to send him up."

A few minutes later Gus stood before the colonel. The boy had had a
bath, and his face looked fresh and bright; but he still wore his
ragged clothes. It was beyond the resources of the household to provide
him with a better suit, since he was far too small to wear anything of
the colonel's.

"Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?" the colonel asked with
sternness, as he raised his eyes and looked keenly at the boy. Then his
stern look relaxed. A strange expression came over his face. Wonder was
in it, and something not unlike fear. What was there in the innocent
child's look that caused the old man's glance to fall, and his lips to
tremble? The blue eyes, looking out from beneath the thick curly hair
all tumbled over the brow, seemed so familiar. The face was just such
another sweet, innocent child's face as had once made the brightness of
his own home. It was as if he were looking upon a little ghost.

The ragged, threadbare clothes seemed odd and out of place; but the
face was the very image of the face that so often haunted his mind,
floating in the mists of old memories, stabbing his heart with a sense
of its guileless, boyish charm—the face of the boy who had loved to
climb his knee and listen to his stories of camp-life, the boy who had
listened with such a thoughtful, intelligent look, and had always so
many questions to ask. But that was long years ago. This child was some
beggar's brat, brought to the house by burglars, and the other boy—

Ah, that boy, so clever, so engaging, so full of promise, where was
that boy now?

Edith wondered that her grandfather looked down and studied the
blotting-pad on his desk ere he addressed another word to the boy, who
made no attempt to reply to his greeting.

After a minute, the colonel looked up, and said with his former
incisiveness—

"What is your name?"

"Gus," the little fellow replied.

The colonel gave a start. The effect of that name on him was like an
electric shock. For that other boy, whom this one so vividly recalled,
had been familiarly known as "Gus."

But the thrill passed, and the next minute he spoke in his usual tone.

"How came you to be in my house last night?"

Gus answered readily now, telling again the story he had already told
so many times. The colonel had heard it from other lips before, which
was as well, perhaps, for he did not now listen with the closest
attention. The child's voice and look as he spoke affected his listener
strangely. He said little more to the boy, but soon sent him away.

"Is it not as I said, grandpa?" Edith asked. "He is not what you would
expect, not an ordinary street Arab, is he now?"

"No, indeed," said the colonel dreamily. "I wonder if his story is
true."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Edith.

"Ah, he has won your heart, I see. And yet—a child put into a house to
steal! Well, well, it's a strange world."

"And he is all alone in it," Edith said gently; "a child with no one to
care for him."

"That's not our concern; we can't help that. We only know that he came
here to steal our things."

"That he was brought here to steal them," said Edith.

"Well, have it as you will; it does not make much difference. What's to
become of him now?"

"That's what I want to know, grandpa. Will you send him to the
police-station?"

"Why not? It's for the State to decide what shall be done with such a
young ragamuffin. They'll send him to an industrial school, I suppose."

"That is what the policeman said; but, grandpa, that boy, with his
sweet face and gentle ways, to mix with boys of the worst sort—"

"Probably he is one of that class himself, Edith. Depend upon it, the
young rogue knows the value of those gentle ways. Now what do you want
me to do—not adopt the lad, surely?"

"No, grandpa, not that," said Edith, smiling; "but I was thinking, if
we could send him to Mr. Mouncey, he would know what to do with him."

"Mouncey! What made you think of him? Upon my word, that's not a bad
suggestion. Mouncey's fond of ragamuffins. He'd make something of him,
if any one could. But why should we trouble about it? Better leave him
to the magistrate."

"Grandpa, that little boy was in my class one Sunday afternoon; I felt
strangely drawn to him; I do still. I am sure he is a good boy."

Colonel Carruthers was silent for a few moments. Across his mind had
come again the vision of that other boy, with his broad, fair brow, his
open, innocent gaze. His face contracted as if with pain. A heavy sigh
escaped him ere he said—

"Do not trust too much to appearances, Edie. These sweet,
innocent-looking children are very disappointing. This boy will most
likely turn out a scoundrel. But I'll think about it; I will see what I
can do."

The colonel did think about it, with the result that he decided
to send Gus to Rayleigh, a village in Kent, where the colonel had
a small estate, and consign him to the care of the Rev. Sebastian
Mouncey, a clergyman who took a special interest in orphan lads, and
had instituted a cottage home for them in his parish. But the police
desired that Gus should be detained at hand for a day or two, that he
might be ready to identify Lucas and his son if they were arrested.
But though the police made every effort to track the burglars, and
expressed confidence in their ultimate success, the two men appeared to
have got well out of their reach.

Gus did not feel particularly glad when Edith told him of the plan
that had been made for him. He would rather have gone back to his old
life at Sally Dent's. It was a poor home he had with her, but he could
hardly remember the days when he had known a better one. Sally had been
kind to him in her way, and now he knew he was not to return to them,
he was conscious of a strange drawing of the heart towards Sally and
her children, and all the people with whom he had lived at Lavender
Terrace. He became aware that he had an affection even for the baby—the
heavy, fretful, exacting baby, who had so often made his arms to ache,
and tried his patience to the utmost.

And Lucy—Gus thought of her with an aching heart. He longed to know
what had become of her, and wondered sadly if he should ever see her
again. Gus begged that he might be allowed to go and say good-bye to
Sally and her children ere he went away into the country.

Edith thought the wish quite to his credit, and persuaded her
grandfather to grant it. But he was still suspicious of the lad,
and thinking it might be a ruse to effect an escape, he resolved to
accompany Gus to Glensford.

Though Sally had declared that Gus should never darken her doors again,
she received him kindly, being impressed by his appearance in the neat
new suit of clothes in which Edith had seen him arrayed, and also by
the stateliness of the gentleman who accompanied him.

The colonel did not enter the house, but stood on the doorstep, in
a position to see that Gus escaped neither by window nor door from
Sally's room, into which she had drawn him.

Sally questioned him eagerly as to all that had happened since he left
her house; she admired his clothes, she pressed him to drink from her
black bottle, whilst the children gathered round him, pleased to see
their old friend again.

"Mrs. Dent," said Gus, when at last Sally paused, "I wish you would
give me that Bible of father's. I should like to take it with me where
I am going; I have nothing that belonged to him. You have it still,
have you not?"

Mrs. Dent hesitated. She glanced at the high shelf on which the Bible
lay, and then through the half-open door at the colonel's stately form.
She longed to refuse the request. She never read the Bible, but none
the less she wished to keep that handsome copy. But she knew she had no
right to keep it from the boy, and she believed that if she refused,
Gus would call the colonel to insist upon her giving him his own. So
reluctantly she climbed on a chair, and lifted down the book. She
undid the paper in which it was wrapped, and looked regretfully at the
embossed covers.

"One don't often see a Bible like this," she remarked, and with that
she opened it.

Strange to say, it opened at the very page on which she had last closed
it, and again the warning words met her glance, "The wages of sin is
death."

She started, closed the book, and thrust it from her.

"Take it!" she cried. "Take it, and welcome. I don't want it. It's not
the book for me. I can't bear to be reminded of death and the grave,
and all dismal things."

And of sin—she would fain forget that there was such a thing as sin,
and that she was a sinner.

"What have you in that parcel?" asked the colonel, when the boy
presently came out of Sally's room.

"My father's Bible, sir."

The colonel's person stiffened visibly. He elevated his chin, drew
his military cloak about him with an air of annoyance, and with a
commanding gesture signed to Gus to precede him as they passed out of
Lavender Terrace.

"That's cant," he said to himself; "wants to do the religious, does he?
His father's Bible, indeed! As if a boy whose father believed in the
Bible would ever have fallen so miserably low!"

A profound distrust of those whom he was wont to describe as the "lower
orders" was engrained in the colonel's character, and especially was he
doubtful of any such if they professed to be religious.



CHAPTER XV.

RAYLEIGH.

WITH that visit to Lavender Terrace, Gus' old life came to an end.
The next morning Edith and her grandfather saw him into the train for
Rayleigh.

Mr. Mouncey, the energetic young vicar of Rayleigh, would meet him at
the other end of his journey. Edith had no fear for him, since he was
going to Mr. Mouncey; yet the boy had already won for himself such a
place in her heart that she felt parting with him.

"We shall come to Rayleigh in the spring, I hope," she said, "so I
shall see you then, Gus."

The boy smiled his sweet, winsome smile, but tears rose suddenly in his
eyes. He was leaving this kind friend, he was leaving behind every one
he had ever known, and going to a place of which he knew nothing, and
his heart sank within him at the thought.

"Look here, young sir," said the colonel sharply, "mind you do your
duty where you are going. You attend to what Mr. Mouncey says, and he
will make a man of you."

Make a man of him! What sort of a man? Gus wondered, as Miss Edith's
form receded from his view, and he knew that the train was bearing him
out of London. A gentleman—such a gentleman as his father had wished
him to be? That was what Gus desired to become.

Rayleigh was a long, straggling village, with few houses that were not
the dwellings of working people. A deep, still river ran through the
place, and supplied the need of its chief industry, the large paper
mill that stood upon its banks.

Most of those who dwelt in the small brick cottages were engaged in
the mill. The long lines of these cottages were not picturesque,
but the village could boast the beauty of a fine old church, with
an ivy-mantled tower. Close to the church was the vicarage, a large
square house, once the home of a numerous family; but the former
vicar had removed to another living, and his successor, being young
and unmarried, seemed out of place in the big house. But he was a
warm-hearted, genial man, and soon gathered plenty of life about
himself.

Within a stone's throw of the vicarage was his cottage home for orphan
lads, a veritable home, where, under the care of a good-natured,
motherly widow, the boys lived a free and happy life. The vicar showed
them a kindness which fell little short of that of a father. The boys
had well-nigh the run of the vicarage. They dug and tended the garden,
which was one of the best in the neighbourhood, and were rewarded with
the finest of the fruit and vegetables.

Mr. Mouncey supplemented the instruction they received at the village
school with informal classes held of an evening in his large old
dining-room. He had had no intention of founding an orphanage. A desire
to befriend a poor woman who had lost her husband, and two young lads
who had been deprived of both father and elder brother by an accident
at the mill, had led to the opening of the cottage. Other orphan lads
in the neighbourhood, who must otherwise have been sent to the nearest
workhouse, were, as time went on, placed in it. Sometimes friends at
a distance asked the vicar to take charge of a forlorn lad; but, as a
rule, the inmates of the cottage were boys whose antecedents were well
known to Sebastian Mouncey. Gus was the first who came there with a
stigma upon him—a boy who had associated with thieves.

But Mr. Mouncey had a welcome for him, not alone because of the
generous way in which the colonel, whilst prophesying to Mr. Mouncey
the disappointment of his hopes, had been ever ready to open his purse
to increase the funds by which the cottage home was maintained; but
also because the utter friendlessness of the boy was a sure passport to
Sebastian's heart.

He kept to himself all that the colonel had told him of Gus' history.
The boy should not begin his new life at Rayleigh with an ill name.
And whatever fears the vicar might have concerning his new charge, he
showed no suspicion of him. Nothing could be kinder than the way in
which he welcomed Gus.

Gus, as he looked into his face, and met the glance of Mr. Mouncey's
kind, earnest eyes, said to himself, "A gentleman—one of the right
sort." And this conviction deepened in the boy's mind as he came to
know Sebastian Mouncey better. His was indeed the gentle heart from
which springs the gentle life.

As for Mr. Mouncey, he was delightfully surprised at the appearance
of the boy committed to his care. Simple-hearted as a child himself,
and frank almost to eccentricity, he was quick to feel the charm
of the boy's artless grace. Gus was not at all the kind of boy he
expected to see. He was not a boy of a low type. There was no sign of
deceit, meanness, or rascality on his small, well-formed features. The
clergyman looked at him, and marvelled.

It was curious how quickly the two came to understand each other. A
bond was forged between them from the hour of their meeting.

Gus got on well with the boys in the cottage home. He was friendly with
them all, but he made no special friend of any one. It was the vicar
who was his friend.

Mr. Mouncey soon discovered that the boy had unusual abilities. He took
trouble and sacrificed time in order to give Gus further instruction
than he obtained at the village school. He began to teach him Latin,
and was astonished at the rapidity with which he mastered the rudiments
of that language. Once when the vicar was teaching him, Gus let fall a
word which showed that his father had understood Latin.

"Your father?" said Mr. Mouncey in surprise. "Then he was an educated
man?"

"My father was a gentleman once," said Gus, with unconscious dignity.

"Once!" repeated the vicar. "What do you mean?"

"He was a gentleman once," said Gus again; "but then—" The boy paused,
and a deep flush of shame dyed his face.

"An educated man who lost his character, and sank to be the companion
of thieves and vagabonds," thought the vicar, and forbore to question
the boy further. All he said was, "You must be a true gentleman, Gus."

The boy looked at him with quick, questioning glance.

   "Howe'er it be, it seems to me
    It's only noble to be good—"

Quoted Mr. Mouncey.

Gus' eyes flashed a quick, comprehensive response, but he made no other
reply.

The first winter which Gus spent in the country was a happy one. He now
made acquaintance with the real country, which is very different from
the suburban country on which London so greedily encroaches.

Gus thoroughly enjoyed the long rambles Mr. Mouncey would sometimes
take with the boys on a clear, frosty day. Gus loved to see the grass
and hedges all glittering with hoar-frost, or to hear the crisp silvery
leaves crack beneath his tread as they walked through the woods. He
thought the trees looked beautiful, with their great branches, bare
save for ivy or lichen, outlined against the blue sky. He loved to
watch the birds and squirrels, and even hares made tame almost by
severe cold, and to learn all Mr. Mouncey could tell him of their
habits. How Gus enjoyed, too, the novel delight of learning to skate on
the frozen river, and the effects of the first heavy snowfall, the work
of clearing the church and vicarage paths, and the snowballing, which
the boys were not likely to omit.

And no less, though in a different way, he enjoyed the bright Sunday
services in the beautiful old church, and the class in the vicar's
dining-room on Sunday afternoons, when he talked to the boys of the
one perfect life of the God-man, through the knowledge of whom we may
become "partakers of the Divine Nature."

In the spring, Colonel Carruthers and his granddaughter, accompanied by
Miss Durrant, came to Rayleigh.

The colonel's house was at some distance from the vicarage, at the
opposite end of the village. It was an old-fashioned thatched house,
with a flower garden in front of it. A fir plantation stretched to the
right, and behind, just beyond the well-stocked kitchen garden, rose a
bit of breezy, furzy common, the top of which commanded a view all over
the village.

Looking down, one saw the river stealing along the meadows with a
gentle curve, now to this side and now to that, till it reached the
large stone buildings, pierced by numerous small windows, where so many
hands were employed in paper-making. Near the mill stood a large house,
also of stone, and an imposing structure in its way, with bay windows
and turrets. This was the residence which the owner of the mill had
built for himself. Observing the house and the well-laid-out gardens
which surrounded it, one could hardly doubt that the business was a
prosperous concern.

Yet, if rumour could be trusted, the mill had not paid well of late,
and the proprietor was beset by difficulties. It was feared that a day
might come when the working of the mill would be suspended; an event
which threatened ruin to the hands employed. But months had passed
since these rumours began to circulate, and the mill had gone on
working all the same. And now that the winter was over, and signals of
summer's approach were beginning to appear everywhere, anxiety ceased
to burden the minds of the working folk.

On the April evening following that of their arrival at Rayleigh,
Edith and her grandfather were walking across the common, enjoying the
beauty of the sunset, when Mr. Mouncey climbed over the low stone wall,
accompanied by two or three of his boys, Gus being one of the party.
It was the colonel's first meeting with the vicar, and he greeted him
heartily.

"This is never Gus," said Edith, turning to look at the boys, when she
had shaken hands with the clergyman.

The boy had indeed greatly changed since she saw him. He had grown
taller, and though slender, looked strong and well-formed. His hair,
though closely cut, still showed a tendency to curl; his cheeks had now
the bright hue of health; his eyes were blue as ever, and the smile
which lit up his face as Edith spoke to him had all the old sweetness.
But whilst it was the same sweet, boyish face, the seriousness of its
expression had deepened. Gus had learned much and thought much since
he left London, and his countenance revealed the quickened mental and
spiritual life.

The colonel had nodded kindly to Gus. His eyes now took quick,
observant survey of the boy as he stood talking to Edith. His glance
seemed to sadden as it rested on the child.

"He has improved," he remarked in an undertone. "What do you think of
him, Mouncey? How will he do?"

"Well," was the prompt reply; "I have not a doubt of it. I never had
such a boy as Gus in my home before."

"Indeed! How does he differ from the others?"

"In every way. They are good lads, most of them, but their minds are
dull and slow, their manners rough and boorish. There is a peculiar
gentleness about Gus, a goodness of heart, an unselfishness, an innate
charm, I hardly know how to describe. Then as to his mind—he can learn
anything; he grasps my ideas in a moment. Oh, I have the highest hopes
of him."

"I would not have, if I were you," said the colonel drily. "You
are too sanguine, as I often tell you. Depend upon it, you will be
disappointed."

"I am not afraid," said Mr. Mouncey, with a smile. "I can tell you, Gus
is a little gentleman."

"Gus—Gus what?" asked the colonel abruptly. "I suppose he has another
name?"

"Gus Rew," said Mr. Mouncey.

"Rew! You can't make much of that," said Colonel Carruthers. "It is not
an aristocratic patronymic. But every one is a gentleman nowadays. The
grand old name is indeed—

   "Defamed by every charlatan,
    And soiled with all ignoble use.

"Still, to apply it to the son of a burglar does seem to me going too
far."

"I do not think that Gus' father was a burglar," replied Mr. Mouncey.

The colonel shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

Mr. Mouncey thought it advisable to introduce another subject.

"Have you heard of the change we are to have here?" he asked, pointing
towards the mill.

"I have heard nothing; I only arrived last night."

"Mr. Gibson has sold the mill. You know, perhaps, that for some time
past he has been carrying it on at a loss. Now he has made over the
whole concern to some one else."

"And who is the purchaser?"

"Some one from London. Philip Darnell is his name."

As it passed his lips, Mr. Mouncey saw that the name was not unknown to
the colonel. The old soldier gave a slight start, his colour changed,
his brow contracted, as if with pain.

"You know this gentleman, perhaps?" Mr. Mouncey ventured to suggest.

"By hearsay only," replied Colonel Carruthers stiffly. "He is of your
complexion politically, Mouncey. He came forward as a candidate for one
of the suburban boroughs some time ago, but was not elected. You will
perhaps find him a sympathetic companion."

Mr. Mouncey shook his head, and smiled good-temperedly. "He will hardly
sympathise with my politics, I fear," he said. "He must be a rich man,
and few rich men can tolerate such an out-and-out Radical as I am."

Another one present had caught the name of Philip Darnell, and was no
less startled by it than the colonel. Gus stood near enough to hear it,
and the sound sent a thrill through his boyish frame. Philip Darnell!
His father's enemy! The man he had seen on that summer morning nearly a
year ago, when he had made that long tramp with his father in search of
employment, and his father had refused the work when found because it
was to be done for this man.

In the night that followed his father had died, and every incident
of that last day together was vividly imprinted on Gus' memory. This
was the man who had wrought his father's ruin, the man on whom he had
promised to be revenged, if ever it was in his power. Was the chance
coming to him now?

Gus remembered every word which his father had uttered concerning
Philip Darnell; but other words which his father had said to him had
almost faded from his mind. He had hardly given a thought since his
father's death to the fact that Rew was not his real name. He had
forgotten the slip of paper inserted within the lining of the old
Bible; but now it suddenly flashed on his mind, and he wondered what
was the long name his father had written that day.

At that moment Mr. Mouncey, was saying, "Good-evening, Colonel
Carruthers."

Gus had heard the colonel's name often before; but a novel thought came
to him as he heard it now. Had not the name his father had declared to
be his sounded something like that—something like Carruthers? Could it
be? But, no, it must be his fancy; it seemed impossible that a poor
boy, such as he was, should have the same name as a gentleman like the
colonel. And what did it matter what his right name was? Gus Rew was a
nice, easy little name, which did very well for him.



CHAPTER XVI.

GUS BEGINS TO WORK FOR HIMSELF.

COLONEL CARRUTHERS remained but a few weeks at Rayleigh. He did not
wait to see Philip Darnell established in Mr. Gibson's late residence.

Edith was sorry to leave the country in the lovely spring-time, when
woods and fields were bright with flowers and with the songs of
birds; but her grandfather seemed suddenly to have taken a dislike
to Rayleigh. He was not to be persuaded to extend his stay, and soon
after their return to the neighbourhood of London Edith learned, to her
regret, that the colonel had let the Retreat, as his country house was
named, to a gentleman for a term of three years.

Edith was sorry, not alone because she loved the place, but also
because she had counted on seeing, from time to time, Gus, in whom she
continued to feel much interest. She knew, however, that Gus could not
be better off than in the care of Mr. Mouncey, so she tried to console
herself with the reflection that he did not want her now, and the boys
in her Sunday class at Glensford did. But somehow, there was not one
of these boys whom she loved as she loved Gus. There was something so
charming about the frank, manly boy; he was at once so gentle and so
bold. She was disposed to say, with Mr. Mouncey, that she had never
seen a lad just like him.

The news that Mr. Gibson had sold the mill was received with sorrow
by his work-people. They had served him for so many years—some of the
older men had worked for his father before they worked for him—that the
idea of a new master was far from agreeable to them. And if Mr. Gibson,
who had known the business all his life, had failed to make it pay, was
it likely, they asked, that a stranger, who, if report said truly, had
never tried paper-making before, was likely to succeed?

But Philip Darnell knew what he was about; the men soon saw that
plainly enough. He had not purchased the concern without shrewdly
calculating ways and means, and discerning how he could get good
interest for his money. Changes were made at the mill. The old foreman,
sorely to his mortification, was dismissed. Several of the old hands
followed him.

The management of the mill was given to a man who came from London,
and brought several workmen with him. A new method of paper-making was
adopted; and if the paper was not so good as formerly, it was produced
at less cost, and found a readier market. Wages were cut down, and
economy exercised in every direction. Some of the work-people refused
to take the lower wage, and moved away from Rayleigh, in the hope of
finding better-paid work elsewhere; but the majority were of opinion
that a "bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," and preferred to
earn what they could at Rayleigh rather than risk coming to destitution
in a strange place. But the change was bitter to them, and they
regarded the new master with little favour.

But Philip Darnell cared not what might be the feelings cherished
towards him by those whom he employed. To him, they were merely the
"hands," human machines, out of which he was determined to grind as
much work as possible, at the greatest profit to himself. He came with
his wife and children to spend the summer at Rayleigh, and they took
possession of the Mill House, as it was called, living there in a far
more extravagant and showy style than the Gibsons had adopted.

Mrs. Darnell, magnificently attired, drove about in a handsome landau,
drawn by a pair of spirited bays. She expected the men to touch their
hats when they saw her, and the women to drop a humble curtsey; but she
made no effort to enter into friendly relations with them. She would as
soon have thought of going to work at the mill as of visiting the wives
and mothers in their homes, as Mrs. Gibson had been wont to do. The
grand lady in her carriage saw them separated from her by a wide chasm
of social inequality, across which no sense of a common womanhood could
draw her.

And the people were quick to feel that they were looked down upon, and
to resent the fact. As the months passed on, the spirit of discontent
deepened and spread. But the mill prospered, and Philip Darnell was
pleased with the success of his new enterprise. He was making money
by the business, and that was all he desired. He had no idea of any
higher success than that of doing well to himself; no sense of any
responsibility for the well-being of those who worked for him.

Another winter came, and another. There was little outward change at
Rayleigh; but quietly, yet surely, the feeling of ill-will between
employer and employed was growing stronger, and taking deeper root.
Philip Darnell had no consciousness of anything being wrong; he
had never felt more prosperous and confident, nor more insolently
disdainful of every one who tried to check the working of his will.

Sebastian Mouncey came in for a large share of contempt, because he
would now and again intercede for some dismissed workman, or try in one
way or another to make the mill-owner feel for his "hands" as men. It
was in vain he made appeal for any sort of charity to Philip Darnell.
He had no sympathy with the clergyman in his schemes for the benefit
of his poor brothers and sisters; nor, though once on a Sunday his
carriage—the distance was barely half a mile—carried him and his wife
to the church door, had he any real belief in the truths the vicar
endeavoured to teach.

Nearly three years had passed since Gus came to Rayleigh. He was
"little Gus" no longer; but a strong, well-grown lad for his years. He
had passed the highest standard at the village school, and had turned
to good account his private lessons with the vicar.

Mr. Mouncey began to deliberate seriously concerning his future. He
thought him no ordinary lad, and would have liked him to have further
educational advantages. He tried to interest Colonel Carruthers, whom
he still saw from time to time, whenever he had occasion to visit
London, in the subject of Gus' future. But to his disappointment, the
colonel hardly cared to listen to anything he could say about Gus.

"Nonsense, Mouncey!" he said once, speaking good-humouredly, but in a
decided manner. "That lad has bewitched you. There is really nothing
exceptional about him. He is a clever young rogue, I daresay; but in my
opinion, you'll make a great mistake if you overeducate him, and try to
lift him out of his true position. Can't you find him work at Rayleigh?
Keep him there if you can, under your own eye, and don't send him up to
London."

Unfortunately Edith Durrant was not present to take up Gus' cause.
Her parents had lately returned from India, and she had left her
grandfather's home, and gone to reside with them at Southampton. Mr.
Mouncey knew that it was vain to seek her aunt's sympathy on behalf
of Gus. Miss Durrant had never forgiven the boy for the fright he had
caused her by hiding himself in her bed. She continued to regard him as
a burglar in embryo. Had she been consulted with regard to his future,
she would probably have suggested that, for the good of society, he
should be kept in close confinement for the rest of his life.

The vicar agreed with Colonel Carruthers in deeming it undesirable that
Gus should return to the neighbourhood of London; but it was with a
feeling of disappointment that he set himself to find work for Gus at
Rayleigh. He spoke to the manager of the mill, and learned that he was
in need of a smart lad, able to write a good hand and keep accounts. He
was willing to take Gus into the counting-house, and try what he could
make of him; and the vicar, thinking Gus well fitted for the post,
gladly accepted it for him.

He fancied Gus would be pleased to hear of the arrangement he had made;
but when he told him the boy's face flushed crimson, as if with pain,
and for some moments he said nothing. Was he to go into the service of
Philip Darnell? Was he to work for the man whom his father had refused
to serve, even when they were almost starving? The idea was most
repugnant to him.

"Why, Gus, you do not like the idea?" said Mr. Mouncey in surprise. "I
thought you would be glad to begin to earn money for yourself."

"So I should be, sir," said Gus slowly, "but—" He paused.

"There is something else you wish to be. Have you set your heart on
becoming a gardener?" said Mr. Mouncey, remembering that Gus had of
late shown much interest in certain gardening operations.

"No, sir. I never thought of such a thing. It is not that I dislike the
kind of work."

"Then what is it you dislike? I can see there is something wrong."

"If it were for any one else," murmured Gus, his face growing a deeper
crimson.

Mr. Mouncey caught the words, and fancied he understood what they
signified. He knew well how Philip Darnell was regarded by his
work-people. The things that were said of him, and even the opprobrious
epithets that some of his workmen did not hesitate to apply to him,
had reached the ear of the vicar. He was far from holding Philip
Darnell blameless in his conduct towards his work-people; but he had no
sympathy with the feelings some of them were beginning to evince.

"Come, Gus," he said, rather sharply, "what foolish notion have you in
your head? What can it matter to you for whom you work? The thing you
have to see to is that you do your work well and nobly, remembering
that you serve, not this master or that, but the Lord Christ."

But Gus looked troubled still.

"Mr. Mouncey," he asked presently, "did you ever have an enemy?"

"An enemy!" repeated Mr. Mouncey, a gleam of amusement lighting up his
bright, open face. "Why, no, Gus, I do not believe I have ever had what
you could call an enemy. I have created ill-will towards myself many a
time by the things I have felt obliged to do; but the feeling has soon
died away. No, I never had a downright enemy. What made you think of
such a thing?"

Instead of replying to this question, Gus asked another.

"Suppose you had an enemy, sir; would you be willing to work for him?"

"Certainly I would serve him, Gus, in any way that I could. If I knew
that a man was my enemy, I would do my utmost to change him into a
friend. That is the Christian way. What did Jesus say? 'Love your
enemies.' It is not hard to serve those whom we love."

"No, but it's hard to love those who have done us wrong," said Gus
thoughtfully.

"You are right; it is hard. We need to seek of God grace to forgive our
enemies. In some cases, one must begin to serve before one can love.
If a man tries to do good to his enemy, he will presently find that he
loves him."

"Then how about revenge?" asked Gus, remembering his father's words.
"Are we never to have our revenge on those who have hurt us?"

"Never," said the vicar emphatically; "the idea of revenge is mean, and
low, and spiteful, unworthy of a Christian and a gentleman. Unless,
indeed, we seek it in the manner St. Paul points out, 'If thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; for in so doing thou
shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but
overcome evil with good.'"

Gus was silent, pondering the vicar's words. That was not the kind of
revenge his father meant. No; his father had hated this man, Philip
Darnell, and had deemed himself justified in hating him with the
bitterest hatred. He had longed for the power to punish him for the
evil he had done. It would have been joy to him to see his enemy suffer
pain.

But a Christian must not hate his enemy. Gus had never heard the old
saying that "A Christian is God Almighty's gentleman;" but he had long
ago resolved that he would be a gentleman after the pattern of Jesus
Christ, and the resolve had become a power in his life. Now by which
was he most bound—the law of Christ, or the promise he had given to his
father?

The boy's simple, ingenuous mind soon saw its way through the
difficulty.

"When I made that promise to father," he said to himself, "I did not
know what I know now. And father did not understand the beautiful ways
of Jesus, and that I cannot truly be a gentleman unless I follow them;
for if he had, he would not have asked me to make such a promise. I
will keep the promise, though: I will seek to be revenged on Philip
Darnell; but it shall be in the Christian way. I do not know how I
shall do it, for he is little likely to hunger or thirst; but there may
be some way in which I can heap coals of fire on his head."

Whilst these thoughts were passing through Gus' mind, Sebastian Mouncey
was watching him curiously. What was working in his mind? What had he
heard concerning Philip Darnell? His enemy, indeed! It was a strange
fancy; but the thoughts of youth are often incomprehensible to older
minds, and Sebastian Mouncey was not the man to despise them on that
account. He did not press Gus to speak, but waited; and presently the
boy of his own accord said—

"I will go to the mill, if you wish it, sir."

"That's right, my lad," said Mr. Mouncey heartily; "I believe it is
the best opening I can find for you. The manager, Mr. Ellary, is a
kind-hearted man, and you will do well with him."

So on the following Monday morning, Gus began his work in the
counting-house. He would still live at the cottage, but he was now to
pay a small sum for his board and lodging, and he felt proud that he
could do so.

From eight in the morning till six in the evening, with the exception
of an hour in the middle of the day, when he went home to have his
dinner, he was in the counting-house. It seemed irksome at first to sit
so long before a high desk; but he worked well, and gave satisfaction
to Mr. Ellary.

It was now late autumn, and Mr. Darnell had returned to his London
residence for the winter, contenting himself with coming down once a
week to see that things were going right at the mill, so that Gus saw
but little of him.

The title of "gentleman" had not followed Gus to Rayleigh, but he
deserved it as much as he had ever done. In his new position, he showed
a courtesy, kindliness, and candour which the noblest-born could hardly
have surpassed. As a natural consequence, he became a general favourite
with the mill-hands.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE MILL-HANDS "STRIKE."

IT was a Saturday evening towards the end of November. The six o'clock
bell had rung, and the "hands," both men and women, were streaming out
of Rayleigh Mill. The atmosphere was raw and cold, yet the work-people
did not hasten to their homes, as they were wont to do. They gathered
in knots outside the gates, talking eagerly. Some of the faces were
flushed and triumphant, some pale and anxious-looking; but each told
of unusual excitement. The younger people shouted and laughed; but
their elders, especially the women, looked troubled. They were thinking
forebodingly of empty cupboards and fireless grates.

As the last band of workers passed through the gates, the crowd broke
into a loud "Hurrah!" The mill-hands had come out "on strike," and
unless Philip Darnell yielded to their demands—which he had vowed he
would not do—not one would enter the mill on Monday morning.

Amongst his employés, there was only one who had refused to join the
strike, and that was the young clerk, Gus Rew. In vain, the men had
urged him to forsake his post; in vain, when persuasions failed, had
they resorted to threats. Gus was happy in his work, and satisfied with
his pay; besides, he knew that Sebastian Mouncey disapproved of the
action of the men. Had they listened to his counsel, their position
might have been improved without such an exhibition of between master
and men; but they had turned from their old friend to listen to the
florid rhetoric and ardent appeals of a trade-unionist from London.

The mill-hands had passed out, and one of the great gates was already
closed when Gus appeared, accompanied by Mr. Ellary.

"Here's that conceited youngster," muttered one of the men. "Hang it!
He has Ellary with him, or we'd give him a jacketing."

"He shall have it yet," said another; "we'll flog the impudence out of
the young sneak. He shall learn not to set himself against those older
and wiser than himself."

"You had better leave the boy alone, I can tell you; it'll be the
worse for any man who lays a finger upon him," said a tall, stalwart
young fellow who stood near. The appearance of Gus' champion was so
formidable that the men turned away, and uttered no more threats.

As Gus passed through the crowd, unconscious of the ill-will he had
excited, an old man caught him by the hand, and said kindly, with
lowered voice, "Gus, lad, you must join us. There are men ready to do
you a mischief if you hold out. Their blood's up, and they don't care
what they do. Come, lad, why should you turn against your old friends?
Why risk your life for the sake of that scoundrel?"

"I will never turn against old friends; Mike, and as to risking my
life, I cannot believe that any of the men would really do me harm.
Why should they? They know I am their friend. But I cannot see that it
would be right of me to throw up my work. I have no grievance."

"You might take up their grievances. It looks as if you had no feeling,
to hold yourself aloof."

"Indeed I do feel for them," said Gus, looking troubled, "and so does
Mr. Mouncey; but—"

"Oh, parson's agin us too. Parsons always take the side of the rich
against the poor."

"That's not true," said Gus, with a touch of indignation in his tone.
"No one feels for the poor more than Mr. Mouncey. But he thinks the men
have been too hasty."

"Oh yes; of course we're in the wrong," said Mike. "But, Gus, these men
have been drinking; you had better take yourself out of their way."

Three of the roughest, most disreputable of the workmen were
approaching. The dark scowl on the face of the foremost and his
clenched fist boded no good to Gus; but the boy made no movement to
escape. His blue eyes looked fearlessly into the angry eyes bent on
him, and the calm, strong glance had its power. The man shrank and
swerved before it as an animal might have done; his hand fell to his
side, he muttered some contemptuous words about "a bit of a lad,"' and
passed on with his comrades, one of whom dropped a large stone he had
taken up, with the intention of hurling it at Gus.

"'Pon my word, you're no coward, lad!" cried Mike admiringly.

Rayleigh Mill looked dreary enough on Monday morning. Not a workman
was in sight as Gus walked up to the gates at eight o'clock; but some
one, unseen, was watching him, for suddenly a stone struck him on the
temple, a little above the eye, with such force that the blood poured
down his face. He stood outside the closed gates, trying to staunch the
blood with his handkerchief, when Mr. Ellary came up.

"Who has done this, lad?" asked Mr. Ellary, with anger in his glance.

"I do not know, sir; no one was in sight when I looked round."

"A coward, whoever he was, to wound a lad for doing his duty! It is a
mercy it missed your eye."

"Yes," said Gus, shivering from the shock.

"Poor boy!" said Mr. Ellary, as he drew out his keys and prepared to
open the gate for himself, the gate-keeper having struck with the rest.
"But the cut is not deep, I trust. There is lint and plaster in the
office, and I will try what I can do as a surgeon."

The office was unswept, the fire unlit. The woman who was wont to
perform those duties dared not put in an appearance that morning; so,
as soon as Mr. Ellary had dressed his wound, Gus, though still feeling
dizzy and sick, set to work to make a fire and put the place in order,
whilst Mr. Ellary opened the letters and despatched a telegram to
Philip Darnell.

Gus found many new tasks to perform that morning, and the time sped
quickly. Soon after noon, Mr. Darnell appeared on the scene. He was
much annoyed at what had occurred, but he was determined to carry
matters with a high hand. The men should learn that he was not to be
forced to do as they pleased. He would show himself master of the
situation, and manage to work the mill without the help of the strikers.

Philip Darnell was conferring with the manager in his private room,
when glancing through the window he saw Sebastian Mouncey approaching
the office. A flush of anger mounted to his forehead. He had always
disliked the clergyman; now he regarded him as the friend and supporter
of the men. Doubtless he had come to urge their cause, and set forth
their grievances. Instantly Darnell decided that he would not listen to
the parson, would not even see him.

"Gus," he said, stepping quickly into the outer office, "Mr. Mouncey is
at the door. Tell him I cannot see him. Say I am not here."

Gus looked at him in amazement.

"But, sir," he began to speak, then paused.

"Well, what?" demanded his employer angrily, as Mr. Mouncey's knock was
heard.

"You are here, sir."

"I suppose I know that as well as you do; but I wish you to tell him I
am not here. Say that I have returned to London."

"I cannot say that, sir," replied Gus, flushing.

"You cannot? How dare you answer me like that? Do as I bid you at once."

"I cannot," said Gus, speaking more firmly. "I will not tell a lie!"

A stinging box on the ears sent him reeling to the other side of the
room.

"Take that!" roared Philip Darnell. "Take that for answering me with
such impudence!"

His upraised voice brought Mr. Ellary in haste from the other room. At
the sight of his astonished face, Mr. Darnell made an effort to recover
his dignity.

"This young cur has grossly insulted me," he said. "Send him about his
business at once. I refuse to have him longer in my employ. Why did he
not join the strikers? He is one with them at heart. He only stayed
that he might act the part of a sneak, a spy. Pay him, and send him off
at once. I insist on it."

At this moment a succession of sharp knocks on the outer door showed
that Mr. Mouncey was growing impatient.

"There's that stupid, meddlesome parson!" burst out Darnell in fresh
anger. "Why can't he attend to his own business, and let mine alone?
You must see him, Ellary; I will not. Go and send hint away somehow.
Tell him I refuse to listen to any compromise, or to make any terms
with the men."

Ellary, with a troubled face, went out, and Philip Darnell retreated
into the inner room. He watched till he saw Sebastian Mouncey, with a
grave, stern look on his usually cheerful face, pass out of the yard.

A little later Gus went out, and took his way to the cottage where he
lived. He was somewhat soothed by a few kind, regretful words from Mr.
Ellary; yet the boy's heart was sore and angry. A sense of injustice
burned within him.

After all—so it seemed to him for a moment—he might as well have joined
the strikers. Surely, now, it was only natural that he should hate
Philip Darnell. He had shown himself his enemy, as he had been his
father's enemy in days gone by. A fierce longing for revenge awoke in
Gus' heart. For a while he was wholly possessed by angry, resentful
feelings; but better thoughts succeeded. Like a breath of pure air from
the eternal hills came to his mind the gentle words of Jesus:

"'I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good
to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and
persecute you.'"

Gus paused ere he reached the cottage, and stood still in deep thought,
suddenly, painfully convicted of duty. Oh, it were easier to forgive
the man who threw the stone which gashed his forehead, than the one who
had so misunderstood him, who had called him a sneak and a spy! Yet he
must forgive both. He must put all hatred, all bitterness, out of his
heart.

How hard it was to be a gentleman in any degree like Jesus Christ! So
hard it seemed, that Gus well-nigh despaired of such attainment; yet he
felt that there was nothing else in life worth striving after. He could
be satisfied with nothing less.



CHAPTER XVIII.

GUS HAS HIS REVENGE.

PHILIP DARNELL was determined that his work-people should not get the
better of him. Since they had chosen to go out on strike, they must
take the consequences of their folly. He would soon find others to fill
their places. He went back to town that same day resolved to find men;
and they were not hard to find. Ere the next day closed, he had engaged
a sufficient number, and it was arranged that they should travel down
to Rayleigh on the following day by a train which arrived there late in
the evening.

Mr. Ellary had the difficult task of providing for their accommodation
within the mill buildings. He could gain no help from the villagers.
Everybody sympathised with the strikers, and one and all refused to
stretch forth a finger in the service of Philip Darnell.

How it became known that he was sending men down to work at the mill
no one could explain. Doubtless the sight of the large supplies of
necessaries which kept arriving from London suggested the idea to the
strikers, on the alert to guard their rights.

Every precaution Mr. Ellary could take failed to secure the strangers
from a warm reception. The strikers collected and mobbed them as
they came out of the station. Brickbats were thrown, and one man was
seriously injured. The darkness of the night favoured the attacking
party, and the village police were overpowered. Many of the new-comers
were persuaded or frightened into turning back ere they reached the
mill gates. The band of men whom Mr. Ellary at last succeeded in
getting within was little more than half the number of those who had
come to Rayleigh, and they were in a sadly disheartened frame of mind.

But though his new arrangement did not work well, Philip Darnell was
not disposed to give in. He brought more men down from London, and
established himself for a while at the Mill House, that he might be at
hand to assist and support Mr. Ellary.

Week after week passed on, and the mill was kept going, though not
without difficulty, owing to the inexperience of the new mill-hands.
Meanwhile, the strikers and their families were suffering sorely.
Children sickened and died, and their death was laid to the charge of
Philip Darnell. When a spell of severe weather set in, and there still
seemed no prospect of a termination of the strike, the general feeling
of resentment towards Philip Darnell grew to a white heat. One day
his effigy was carried the whole length of the village, followed by
a mocking, hooting crowd, and finally burnt on the common behind the
colonel's house.

Sebastian Mouncey began to fear that the mill-owner would not escape
personal violence.

The clergyman did what he could to relieve the poor families in the
straits they had brought on themselves; but he had no power to bring
about a better state of things, since Mr. Darnell refused to listen to
any mediator.

Nor was Gus idle. He had found plenty to do since he was dismissed
from the mill. The colonel's house was now empty, and there was work
for boys to do in weeding and hoeing the garden. But Gus had a way of
finding tasks for himself in addition to those with which the vicar
provided him. He went in and out of the cottages, greeted everywhere
with a welcome; for since it became known that he, too, was a sufferer
from Philip Darnell's tyranny and injustice, all the old friendliness
towards him had revived.

If there was an over-worked mother to be helped, or a sick child to be
amused, or any job to be done to which he could give his strength and
skill, Gus was ready to meet the need. He was never so happy as when he
was helping others.

Christmas was close at hand. It promised to be the gloomiest Christmas
the villagers of Rayleigh had ever known. It was the night of the
twentieth—a night long remembered at Rayleigh. Gus was sleeping in the
tiny room he had to himself beneath the thatched roof of the cottage.
He was never a heavy sleeper, and towards morning the melancholy
howling of a dog roused hint from his slumber. The sound seemed to come
from the direction of the mill. Sitting up in bed to listen, Gus was
surprised to see a red glow in the sky. Was it the herald of the dawn?

He hurried to the little casement beneath the eaves. Then he saw that
the glow came from behind the mill, and from it, showing dark against
the copper-coloured sky, rose a thick column of smoke. As Gus gazed in
bewilderment, unable at once to conceive the meaning of what he saw, a
flame shot through the smoke.

Gus sprang from the window, and rushed to the top of the stairs,
crying, "Fire! Fire!" Hustling on his clothes, he was abroad as soon as
any one, and flew to rouse those who were sleeping at the mill. As he
hurried along, he soon perceived whence the smoke came. It was not the
mill, but Mill House that was in flames.

The men were quickly roused; but for a while the greatest confusion
prevailed. There was a fire-engine belonging to the mill, but the new
hands did not understand how to use the gear, and the firemen wert of
course amongst the strikers. Even in this extremity they held back,
mindful of their wrongs.

"Let him burn!" Gus heard a man say. "He has done his best to starve
us; he would not care if we and our children perished. Let him burn, I
say!"

"For shame, Ned!" cried Gus passionately. "Are you a man, and talk like
that?"

There was no time for more words. The boy was working with an energy
which put to shame every half-hearted man. Mr. Ellary and the vicar
were now on the spot, issuing commands, and working so hard themselves
that few could resist the contagion of their example. But work as they
might, things seemed against them. The hose was out of order; there was
a terrible delay ere it could be got to work. Meanwhile, in the still
frosty air the fire was burning fiercely, and spreading all along the
front of the house.

Gus was one of those who helped to drag the fire-escape round to the
burning house. No sign of life was apparent in the front, where the
fire raged fiercest. Happily there were few persons in the house.

In the absence of his wife and family, Mr. Darnell had been content
with the services of a married couple, formerly servants of his, who
had been left in the house as caretakers. These two were presently
seen at an upper window at the back of the house, crying for help, in
a state of the utmost terror. They had tried to escape, but the stairs
which led to their rooms were in flames. In a few minutes, by means of
the fire-escape, they were brought safely to the ground.

"Where is Mr. Darnell? Is he awake?" demanded several voices.

"We cannot tell," was the reply; "he sleeps at the other side of the
house—the room with two windows, to the right of the great door."

The room to the right! Just where the flames were gathering most
fiercely! The fire-escape was promptly brought to the spot, but the
flames were now shooting outwards and upwards with such fury that it
was found impossible to use it. Shout after shout was raised, but no
voice responded, no sign of life was apparent anywhere.

[Illustration]

"He is beyond help by this time," said one of the men.

And a momentary sense of awe fell even upon those who a little before
could have cried, "Serve him right!"

"There must be some way of getting to him—something can surely be
done!" cried Sebastian Mouncey, aghast at the thought of Philip Darnell
being thus abandoned to his fate.

But the lower rooms and the staircase were in flames; it would be
madness to attempt to enter, and the amateur firemen were by no means
disposed to risk their lives in an heroic effort to save that of
the man they hated. All they would do was to apply the hose freely,
trusting thus to check the progress of the flames.

But whilst they hung back, deeming rescue hopeless, one, who had
certainly no less cause to regard Philip Darnell as his enemy, was
resolved to dare his utmost rather than let him perish without making
an attempt to save him.

A shout was suddenly raised, and looking up, Mr. Mouncey perceived that
Gus had ascended by means of the fire-escape at a point to which the
fire had not extended, and was advancing along a narrow stone coping
towards a window which adjoined those of Mr. Darnell's bedroom. The
ledge was so narrow that the attempt was most hazardous.

After that one instinctive shout, the crowd held their breath as they
watched his slow, cautious advance. Presently he was lost in a cloud
of smoke. Then again they saw him. He had reached the window, and was
clinging to its framework. They saw him break the wide pane with his
elbow. The heat had loosened it, the whole sheet of glass came out
easily; but the smoke rolled out through the opening, and as the brave
lad crawled within, they saw him no more.

The men below raised another ringing shout. Sebastian Mouncey could not
join in it. A mist passed before his eyes, a sickening dread oppressed
his heart.

Mr. Ellary murmured, "A hero, if ever there was one; but he cannot come
out alive!"

Gus had entered the dressing-room connected with Mr. Darnell's bedroom.
The rush of smoke that met him was almost overpowering, but drawing his
woollen muffler closely over his mouth, he pressed through into the
next room. The air was heavy with smoke; already the floor felt hot
beneath his feet, but Gus stumbled across it, till he found the bed and
the form stretched in stupor upon it.

There was no rousing the sleeper, and every moment passed in that
suffocating atmosphere was full of danger. By main force—happily he
was strong for his years—Gus dragged the unconscious form out of bed,
and across the floor into the dressing-room. Here there was water,
and dashing it upon the face of the sleeper, and then shaking him
violently, Gus roused him to a sense of his awful peril.

Philip Darnell raised himself from the floor, but, shivering and
bewildered with terror, seemed powerless to move, whilst the blinding
smoke rolled towards them. Flames were already licking about the window
by which Gus had entered. It was impossible to escape by that.

"Put this over your face," cried Gus, seizing a towel from the
washstand, "and come with me."

Clutching his wrist, he drew him into the passage. Fresh clouds of
smoke rolled to meet them. Flames were leaping upwards from the burning
staircase. Philip Darnell shrank back in terror; but Gus, with the
strength of desperation, dragged him on through the dense smoke down
the passage, and into one of the back bedrooms, where the atmosphere
was clearer. Gus made for the window, threw it up, and stepped out
upon the sill. Darnell managed, with his help, to get up beside him,
clinging to the casement; but the man was shaking so, that it seemed
impossible that he could long retain his hold. They tried to shout; but
their voices were choked, and only a faint sound escaped them.

The fire was at a distance from them now; they had only to fear the
smoke, the suffocating, choking smoke. How long could they hold out
against that? Would it hide them from those below?

"Is there any hope?" asked Darnell faintly.

"Yes, there is hope," Gus said. "I hear a shout. I believe the people
see us. Hold on with all your might."

"I can't hold on much longer," was the reply. Then, as a thought struck
him, Darnell tried to peer through the smoke at the boy who stood
beside him. "I don't know you," he said; "who are you?"

In moments of extreme peril, the past comes back to us with
extraordinary vividness. At that instant, there flashed upon Gus' mind
all that his father had told him of his past history, and of the way
in which he had been wronged by Philip Darnell. He remembered how his
father had told him that he was by birth a gentleman; and the name
rightfully his, though so long forgotten, stood forth distinctly before
him now, as though written on the murky atmosphere in letters of fire.

There was scarce a pause ere he said calmly, in reply to his
companion's question, "I am Augustus Devereux Carruthers."

Darnell's ear caught the words. He started violently, lost his balance
for a moment, and, but for Gus' quick grasp, must have fallen. Gus did
not loose his hold of him again.

There were more shouts from below. The people had seen them. The
fire-escape was being brought to the spot. No time was lost by those
below; but the waiting seemed awful to the two who stood on the
window-sill.

Gus dared not look down. His head was growing dizzy, his limbs
numb. His hands still kept their grasp of Philip Darnell and of the
window-frame, but they were growing lax; they seemed not to belong to
him.

There was another shout. The fire-escape was in position. Some one
was mounting rapidly. But just as Philip Darnell's arm was grasped by
Sebastian Mouncey, Gus on the other side relaxed his hold, staggered,
and fell to the ground.



CHAPTER XIX.

A REVELATION.

WHEN they lifted Gus from the ground they found that he had broken
his thigh, and it was feared that he might have sustained still more
serious injuries. Mr. Mouncey helped to carry him to the vicarage,
which was nearer than the cottage in which he lived, and the village
surgeon was soon in attendance on him.

Philip Darnell, too, was made welcome to the vicarage, and to all he
stood in need of that Mr. Mouncey could supply. He was unnerved by the
sudden shock and the narrow escape he had experienced, but otherwise
uninjured.

Meanwhile, the best efforts that could be made with the one small
engine were powerless to check the progress of the fire. After a while
two fire-engines from neighbouring districts arrived on the scene; but
by that time the fire had gained such a hold that it was impossible
to save any portion of the house. It burned on till midday, and when
evening fell the ruins were still smouldering. On the morrow, little
save the outer shell of the house remained. The fire which destroyed
the Mill House was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the annals of
Rayleigh.

A thorough investigation was made, but the origin of the fire could not
be traced. No one appeared to have known anything about it till Gus
gave the alarm. Yet Philip Darnell was convinced that it was the work
of an incendiary; and though Sebastian Mouncey would fain have believed
otherwise, he thought it only too probable that this was the case. He
had heard many a muttered threat of revenge.

What more likely than that some of the most lawless of the strikers,
finding themselves baffled at every turn, and powerless to win an
advantage by any overt act, should have chosen this way to strike
a blow at their oppressor? But though detectives came from London
to search out the matter, nothing transpired that could lead to the
conviction of the criminal and his confederates, if such there were.
The affair remained a mystery.

For Sebastian Mouncey, Gus formed the most absorbing interest of the
next few days. The lad's injuries were so great that at first it seemed
almost impossible that he could recover. Whilst he lay unconscious, Mr.
Mouncey was constantly beside his bed, sharing the watch of the skilled
nurse, and manifesting the devotion of a father towards the orphan lad.
All the village there appeared to share his anxiety. In almost every
home were those who were hoping and praying that Gus' life might be
saved.

And yet, perhaps, none desired his recovery more than did Philip
Darnell. He felt that if Gus died, his face would haunt him to the end
of his days, like that of an accusing angel with eyes full of reproach.
Was it a frenzied fancy, born of his terror and anguish, or had the boy
indeed uttered that name as they stood on the window-sill, the name of
the man whom he would never willingly recall, yet could not banish from
his memory? Ah, he would give anything now to be able to forget the man
whom he had pushed down in the world's mire, and over whose prostrate
form he had then stepped to his own advancement!

"Be good enough to let me know every day how the boy is," he said to
the clergyman, ere quitting Rayleigh for London; "and draw upon my
purse for whatever he wants. If you think it well, I will send down a
surgeon from London. I cannot forget that he has saved my life."

"Thank you," said Mr. Mouncey. "I will see to it that Gus wants
for nothing. He has many friends who will be only too happy to do
everything in their power for him."

"Who is he?" asked Mr. Darnell quickly. "I mean, what do you know of
his history before he came to Rayleigh?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Mouncey, "except that his father was an educated
man, who had sunk into the lowest depths of poverty."

"Ah," said Darnell, his colour deepening as he spoke; "was, you say;
then his father is dead?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Mouncey; and no more was said about Gus.

That night, the high fever, which had been one of the gravest symptoms
of Gus' condition, began to subside, and in the morning he was
conscious. But he was very weak, and at first could remember little
of what had happened. The awful fire, his gallant rescue of Philip
Darnell, and the danger he had shared with him, seemed all part of the
delirium through which he had been passing. But gradually things became
clearer to him.

"There was a fire, was there not?" he said to Mr. Mouncey as he sat
beside him. "I did not dream it?"

"No," said his friend; "there was indeed a fire. The Mill House was
completely burned; there is nothing left of it but the walls."

"Ah, then it is as I think," said Gus; "there was a fire, and I got in
at the window and I woke him—and then afterwards I fell, and that was
how my leg was broken. But he did not fall, did he?"

"You mean Mr. Darnell? He was brought safely to the ground. He owes
his life to you, Gus, for if you had not gone to him, he must have
perished."

"I am so glad," said Gus fervently, and tears came into his eyes.

He lay still, too weak to ask more questions, and Sebastian Mouncey
avoided speaking about the fire, for he feared to excite him.

From that day Gus began to improve, and though his progress was very
slow, it went on steadily. One day the good woman with whom he had
lived, and who had been a kind friend to him ever since he entered
her home, came to see him. He asked her to let him have some of his
possessions that were at the cottage, amongst other things his Bible.
She promised to send one of the boys to the vicarage with them as soon
as she reached home.

So it happened that when Mr. Mouncey returned from his afternoon's
round of visits, and looked into the sick-room to ascertain how Gus
was getting on, he saw the old Bible lying on the counterpane by his
side. The large thick book, with its unusual style of binding, at once
attracted his attention.

"Why, what have you here, Gus?" he asked, laying his hand on it.

"My father's Bible, sir," was the reply. "I thought I should like to
read a bit, but my arms ache so when I try to hold it."

Mr. Mouncey looked at the Bible with interest. He took it up, and
examined curiously the thick leather covers, with their lining of
watered silk. He noted, with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, the strong
yet flexible binding and the exquisitely clear type in which the
paragraphs were printed.

"This is a beautiful Bible, Gus," he said; "old, yet in excellent
preservation. I see it was printed in 1828."

He was standing at the window, holding the book up to the light as he
spoke. The next moment a slip of paper fluttered from it to the ground.

"What is this?" asked Mr. Mouncey, as he picked it up.

[Illustration]

"Oh!" exclaimed Gus, in a tone of pleasure. "That is the paper father
put inside with my name upon it. The silk must have come ungummed. He
wrote my real name upon the paper, and slipped it inside the lining to
keep it safe."

"Your real name!" said Sebastian Mouncey. "Are you not then Gus Rew?"
He looked at the paper he held in his hand, and read in tones of
astonishment, "'Augustus Devereux Carruthers.' Is that your real name?"

"Yes, that is my name," replied Gus; "father said so; he wrote it down
that I might know it. I remember I thought it was a very long one."

Sebastian Mouncey was startled. He stood silent, lost in thought. He
had heard something of the story of Colonel Carruthers' unhappy son. He
knew that he had brought shame on his father, and had been cast off and
disowned by him in consequence.

"Gus," he said presently, "do you know that your name is the same as
the colonel's?"

"I thought it was," said Gus, "but I could not be sure. I had almost
forgotten the name. Does it make any difference?"

"It might make a good deal of difference," said Mr. Mouncey gravely;
"or, on the other hand, it may be only a coincidence. But it is nothing
to trouble about, Gus," he added, seeing an uneasy look on the boy's
face; "don't think any more of it now."

But whether Gus thought more of it or not, the possibility suggested
by the discovery he had made was not to be banished from Mr. Mouncey's
mind, and he could not rest till he had despatched a letter to the
colonel by the night's mail.



CHAPTER XX.

NO LONGER A HUMAN WAIF.

GUS was too weak, and suffering too much pain in his broken limb, to
think long of the words that had passed between him and Mr. Mouncey.
When the pain and weariness became more than he could bear, the medical
man would give him a strong sedative, under the influence of which he
would sleep for hours. But for the relief thus gained, he could hardly
have borne the strain of constant pain.

One afternoon, after sleeping for several hours, he woke to find a lady
seated by his side. She was not young; her form was full and matronly,
and her countenance was a pleasant one to look upon. She was knitting,
and her expression was rather sad; but when she looked up and met Gus'
gaze she smiled brightly on him. Her sweet smile and the look of her
blue eyes seemed familiar to Gus; yet he felt sure he had not seen her
before.

"So you are awake at last," she said, bending over him, and laying her
hand tenderly on his curly hair; "and how do you feel now, Gus?"

There was a strange thrill in her voice, as of feeling resolutely
restrained.

"Better," he replied, smiling back at her; "much better."

"That is right," she said brightly. "And now for the beef-tea. I must
not forget nurse's instructions. Please do not begin to talk till you
have had some beef-tea."

She turned quickly to the fireplace, where, keeping warm on the hob,
was the beef-tea.

Gus was not particularly fond of this strengthening beverage; but
somehow it looked more inviting than usual as the lady poured it out,
and brought it to him on a little tray, with some tiny chips of toast
daintily arranged on a plate.

"Has nurse gone away?" he asked, when he had emptied the cup.

"Yes, she was called to another, a more urgent case, and we felt
obliged to let her go. I am here to take care of you, if you will let
me."

"You are very kind," said Gus, regarding her with some wonder. "Are you
a nurse, then?"

"Not professionally; but I have had much experience of nursing,"
replied the lady gently. "I believe I can take proper care of you."

"Oh, I am sure of that," said Gus quickly. "Will you tell me what your
name is, please?"

"My name is Durrant," she replied; "I am Edith's mother."

"Miss Edith's mother!" said Gus looking very pleased. "Ah, to be sure!
I remember hearing that you had come home from India."

"That was some time ago," said Mrs. Durrant. "Gus, will you be very
much surprised if I tell you that I am not only Edith's mother, but
also your aunt?"

"My aunt!" repeated Gus, in astonishment. "But how can that be? I have
not an aunt."

"You did not know that you had one," said Mrs. Durrant, trying to
smile, but with tears rising in her eyes. "Gus, from what Mr. Mouncey
has told me, and from seeing that Bible, which I recognise as one which
formerly belonged to my mother, I am convinced that your father was my
only brother—the brother left so early to my care, and dearer to me
than words can tell; but who—alas!—wandered into evil ways, and was
lost to us whilst yet he lived."

Here, in spite of every effort to control herself, she broke down and
sobbed. Gus began to sob too, for he was still very weak. Seeing his
emotion, Mrs. Durrant tried hard to check her own.

"Gus," she asked presently, "did your father never speak to you about
his sister Edith?"

"No," said Gus; "he never said a word about his past life, till a few
weeks before he died. Then he told me what my right name was, and that
he was a gentleman by birth, although he was so poor and miserable. And
he made me promise that I would try to be a real gentleman. Are you
sure he was your brother?"

"I have not a doubt of it, Gus. My father has gone to make what
inquiries he can at the place where you lived; but he, too, I am sure,
is convinced in his own mind. If I had doubted before, I should have
known the truth as soon as I saw you, for you are so like what your
father was at your age. Yes, Gus, I am indeed your aunt, for you are
the child of my own dear, but most unhappy brother. Oh, how I love you
for his sake!"

"I am so glad," said Gus, as she bent down and kissed him; "I thought I
belonged to no one."

Then he said no more, for he saw that his aunt was overpowered by
painful memories. He lay still, musing on the wonderful fact he had
learned. Edith Durrant was his cousin, the colonel was his grandfather.
How strange it was to think of it! He was glad, and yet there was
sorrow in his heart. To think of what his father's early home must have
been, of his father and his sister, and then to recall the misery and
squalor and sin in which his days had ended! Oh, the pity of it! Gus
felt that he could never cease to be conscious of that.

The same thought was wringing with anguish the heart of his
grandfather. As he recalled every incident of the past, Colonel
Carruthers could no longer refuse to see that he himself had been
greatly to blame. He had been too fond, too indulgent a parent in his
son's childhood, and too hard, too unrelenting when his son, in later
life, chose to cross his will.

Why had he been so angry with his son because he had taken his wife
from a social circle which he, the military man of fashion, considered
inferior to his own? She was good and gentle, he had been told, and yet
he had despised her. There had been no shame, no wrongdoing then. Why
had he suffered the fact of his son's making a mésalliance, as he had
deemed it, to alienate them so entirely? Perhaps, had he stifled his
pride, and received the low-born bride with kindness, his son would
never have made his swift descent into shame and misery. Ah, how bitter
it was now to see, as he did so clearly, that his son's future might
have been entirely different had he acted another part from that which,
in his pride and resentment, he had so stiffly maintained!

It was late in the evening. Gus had had another sleep, from which he
awoke refreshed. He was lying still, watching with languid enjoyment
the shapely white hands of his aunt as they plied the knitting-needles,
when Colonel Carruthers entered the room.

There was nothing in the least like a scene. The colonel was not one
to give way to emotion under any circumstances. Whatever he felt as
he gazed on the fair, open face of the boy, and saw again the strong
likeness to his own son, which had struck him so forcibly when first
he looked on Gus, his countenance retained its usual quiet, inflexible
demeanour.

His tone was constrained and almost cold as he said, "How are you now,
my boy?" At the same time extending his hand in a formal fashion.

"Much better, thank you, sir," Gus replied, timidly grasping the
outstretched hand.

"That is well," said the colonel. Then observing an eager, wistful look
in Gus' eyes, he said, turning to his daughter, "Have you told him,
Edith?"

"Yes, father."

The colonel made no rejoinder. He seated himself in such a position
that Gus could only see his side face, and sat gazing into the fire.

Thinking they would get on better alone, Mrs. Durrant quitted the room.

But still the colonel sat silently gazing into the fire, and Gus, as
he watched him, grew nervously anxious for him to speak. At last, when
Gus felt his endurance strained to the utmost, the colonel broke the
silence.

"Gus," he said, "they tell me you saved the life of Philip Darnell."

This remark seemed to require no reply, and Gus was silent, waiting for
more.

"It is a strange thing," continued the colonel after a pause, speaking
in a low, bitter tone. "You could not know it, but that man was your
father's worst enemy. He was the cause of your father's ruin. I had
long suspected him of playing a double part, but I did not learn the
truth till a few years ago, when I learned it from one of your father's
former companions, who, unknown to Philip Darnell, had been in the
whole secret. He was dying when he told me how Darnell had enticed and
ensnared my son into the crime for which he was afterwards the first
to denounce him. Yes, he revealed to me the whole conspiracy. I could
confront Darnell with it, but what would be the good? He has done
nothing that the law can punish, and it is all too late as far as your
father is concerned. Would to God it were possible to undo the errors
of the past!"

There was a wail of pain in the colonel's tone. He was silent for a few
moments, and when he spoke again it was in a colder, quieter manner.

"It is useless to talk of the past," he said; "but, Gus, if you had
known what I know of that man, you would not have rushed so eagerly to
his rescue."

"But I did know," said Gus in a low tone; "my father told me."

"Eh, what?" exclaimed the colonel, turning quickly to look at him.
"What did your father tell you?"

"We saw Mr. Darnell once. He was driving in a carriage," said Gus, "and
my father pointed him out to me, and told me to remember that he was
his and my worst enemy. And he bade me have my revenge on him, if ever
it was in my power. I can never forget what father said, for it was
only the day before he died."

"You knew that? He told you that?" said the colonel in a tone of
extreme surprise. "And yet you risked your life to save that man! How
could you?"

"I only wanted the more to save him because of that," replied Gus,
speaking with an effort. "Don't you see, it was my revenge?"

For a few moments his grandfather was, from sheer amazement, unable to
reply. He stared at Gus like one astounded. Then his eyes fell, his
head drooped, and he sat silently pondering the boy's words.

"Gus," he said at last, in low, unsteady tones, "you are a gentleman."

Gus' face glowed with pleasure, but he made no reply.

There was a long pause.

The colonel was bending forward, gazing into the fire. Then he spoke
again.

"Gus," he said slowly, "you are more than a gentleman; you are a
Christian." And with that, he rose and went hastily from the room.



CHAPTER XXI.

DEEDS AND THEIR FRUIT.

"GUS, I have good news for you," said Mr. Mouncey, as he entered the
pleasant morning-room at the Retreat, when Gus was resting on a sofa,
whilst his Cousin Edith sat near, busied in giving the last touches to
a little water-colour drawing.

The colonel had again taken up his abode in his house at Rayleigh,
and thither had Gus been conveyed as soon as he was strong enough to
bear the removal. His aunt had been obliged to return to her home
at Southampton, but Edith had come to make a long stay with her
grandfather, that she might be her cousin's companion.

"Good news!" repeated Gus, looking eagerly into his friend's face. "Oh,
please tell me what it is!"

"The strike is over," said Mr. Mouncey, his countenance radiant with
satisfaction. "Mr. Darnell has at length decided to take back all the
old hands, except a few whom he considers past work, and to give them
the extra pay they asked."

"You do not mean it!" cried Gus delightedly. "Why, it hardly seems
possible that it can be true. I never thought Mr. Darnell would give
in."

"To tell you the truth, Gus, I think your influence has had some weight
in the matter."

"Mine?" said Gus. "How could it? I never said a word to Mr. Darnell
about the strike."

"Ah, but he knows which side has your sympathy. And once, when he spoke
to me of your having saved his life, and said how he wished he could
do something for you, I ventured to hint that he could not please you
more than by helping those poor starving families in the cottages. I
scarcely expected my words to have any effect, but it seems they had."

"I am so glad," said Gus, earnestly. "Oh, Mr. Mouncey, it is indeed
good news!"

For a few moments Mr. Mouncey did not reply. He was thinking how such
a noble deed as Gus had done enriches our human life, and how far its
elevating influence may extend.

"You remember old Mike Newman?" he said presently. "I fear he will
never work again; he is very ill with rheumatic fever. He has a great
wish to see you, Gus. Could you get so far, do you think? There is
something weighing on the poor old man's mind. Perhaps he will tell his
trouble to you; I cannot draw it from him."

"I can drive you there in the pony chaise this afternoon if you like,
Gus," said Edith.

And Gus willingly fell in with the suggestion. Several weeks had passed
since the night of the fire, and he had made fair progress. He was now
able to get about a little with the aid of crutches. It was feared that
his cure would be so far imperfect that he would always walk with a
slight limp. The thought of this was a trouble to his grandfather, but
Gus would not let it trouble him.

When Gus entered Mike's cottage on his crutches, he found the poor old
man even worse than he had been led to expect. But, though in great
pain, Mike was conscious, and presently, as they talked together, it
seemed to Gus that his anguish was as much that of the mind as of the
body. At first his words appeared so wild and incoherent that Gus
fancied he must be wandering; but gradually he found a clue to their
meaning.

"Eh, Master Gus," he said, "the pain is just like a fire in my bones—a
fire burning me whilst I live. And sure, if ever man deserved to be
burned I'm that man. The very pains of hell have got hold on me, and
it's to hell I'm going!"

"Don't say that, Mike; you need not go to hell."

"I must, lad, I must! For a man that's sinned as I have there can be no
mercy. I'm as bad as a murderer, that's what I am."

"And if you are, Mike, there's mercy even for such. Don't you remember
how Jesus Christ prayed for His murderers?—'Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do!'"

"Ah, but I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a crime for which I
might be hanged; but I didn't care. If I'd seen what it would all
lead to! I never thought, Gus, that you would suffer! To see you come
limping in, so mild and patient, was almost more than I could bear. And
yet it would have been worse if he had died. You've saved me from the
guilt of blood."

"Mike, what do you mean? Of what are you thinking?"

"Can't ye guess, Gus?"

"Are you thinking of the fire, Mike? Do you know more about it than I?"

"I know more about it than any one else, lad. Oh, if I dared to tell
you! Maybe you wouldn't be so hard on me as some. Oh, this fire, this
fire in my bones! I shall not rest in my grave, I'm thinking, if I
don't confess the truth."

"If there's anything on your conscience, Mike, you'd better confess it
to God, not to me."

"I can't, I can't!" groaned the old man. "Besides, God knows. Isn't He
punishing me for it now?"

"Mike," said Gus gravely, "do you know how the fire began?"

"Do I know?" muttered Mike. "Who should know if I do not?" Then,
suddenly turning his eyes on Gus, he asked in shrill, sharp tones—

"Lad, do you think that fire was kindled without hands?"

"Mike!" exclaimed Gus, with consternation in his voice. "You don't
mean to say that any one was wicked enough to set fire to the house on
purpose?"

"Ah, truly," was the reply, in broken, quavering tones; "there was one
wicked enough, and that was Mike Newman. You are horrified, Gus; but it
made me mad to feel that I was ground down and trampled on by a man no
better than myself, just because he was rich and I was poor.

"The strike brought more trouble into my home than into any other in
the village. My daughter, poor soul, when her husband's wages ceased,
made a brave struggle to live on almost nothing. How she managed I
cannot tell. She grew to be mere skin and bone, for many a meal she
would go without for the sake of her children. But then they sickened,
and Willie—you remember our brave, bonny little Willie—was the first
to go. The twins followed, and she, poor soul, could not bear up after
the loss of her babes. She was soon laid beside them. They're all four
sleeping under the old elm in the churchyard.

"Do you wonder I felt wild with Darnell? How could I bear to think of
his living in ease and plenty, his wife and children wanting nothing,
and ours starved like that! I said there was no such thing as justice
in heaven or earth. God was against us too. He was the God of the rich,
not of the poor. I thirsted for revenge. I longed to do something with
this weak old arm that should make Darnell smart. I used to long for
a gun, that I might take a shot at him some night after dark. But I
knew my aim would be unsteady, and that I should miss my mark. Then
the thought struck me that I would set fire to his house. That was not
easy; but when the devil tempts a man to sin, he opens up the way for
him.

"I was hanging about that night near Darnell's house. It was midnight.
I had been to the Rising Sun. A man from London had been there speaking
to us chaps, and when he'd said his say, he treated us to a glass all
round. His words had stirred my blood, and mayhap the liquor was too
strong for me, for I had tasted scarce a morsel that day. I was passing
the door leading into the court at the back of the house, when a sudden
gust of wind blew it open. No one is afeard of thieves at Rayleigh, and
Brown and his wife had forgotten to make it fast before they went to
bed.

"Something said within me, 'Now's your time.' I went in and looked
about. The lights was all out; every one in the house was abed. There
are no shutters to the kitchen window. I broke a pane, and opened it
with little trouble. I climbed in, found a box of matches, and then
went down to the cellar. I knew my way, for I'd had a job of cutting
and piling wood there once. There was wood stored there then, and on
the other side of the cellar stood a barrel of paraffin oil. I carried
the wood over, an armful at a time, and piled it about the barrel; I
found some straw, and added that, and then I set fire to the heap. I
only waited to see that it would burn, and then I hurried away. No
one saw me, and the fire destroyed all traces of my having entered
the house. I went home and to bed, but I could not sleep; and before
morning the rheumatics had seized on me so that I could not move. The
pain has never left me since."

"Oh, Mike! How could you do such a thing?" cried Gus aghast. "How did
you feel when you knew the house was burning away, and nothing could
check the flames?"

[Illustration]

"Feel! I felt like a fiend that night. I chuckled to myself, and
thought how cleverly I had done it. I hoped Darnell would be burned.
But afterwards—ah, lad, afterwards, it was as if there were a fire
burning within me. I knew I had done the devil's work. And when they
told me how you had risked your life to save Darnell—you whom he
had misjudged and struck, to whom he had been no better than to me
and mine—oh, Gus, I felt real bad then! Your conduct showed me the
blackness of mine. I was thankful Darnell was saved; but I knew that
all the same I was as bad as a murderer."

"Thank God I got to him in time!" cried Gus, much moved. "Oh, Mike,
I might have done as you did, for I felt very bad towards him at one
time, only I remembered—I had learned the best way of being revenged."

"What is that?" asked Mike.

"'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; for in
so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head,'" repeated Gus.

"I've heard them words before; they're in the Bible, ar'n't they?" said
Mike. "I used to learn the Bible when I was a boy. But I should never
have thought of acting that way; and who does? Even those who pretend
to be religious, do they do as the Bible tells them? Look at Darnell
now—don't he go to church?"

"That other people fail to do as they ought is no reason why we should
not try to obey the Bible," said Gus.

"P'raps not," said Mike; "and yet I don't see it's fair to expect us
poor folks to behave better than those who have everything they wants.
But the Bible's true; I know that. It says the 'wicked shall be turned
into hell,' and that's where I'm going. I shall be tormented in flames,
longing for a drop of water to cool my tongue. 'Where the worm dieth
not, and the fire is not quenched.' There's Bible words for you."

"And these, too, are Bible words," said Gus, and he repeated: "'If we
confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and
to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' So you see, Mike, God will
forgive your sin, if you ask Him."

The old man shook his head mournfully. "Nay, nay, lad; it's too late
for that. There's no hope for me, none. I am a murderer, and my part is
in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone."

"But there is hope," said Gus earnestly; "Jesus will receive sinners.
Oh, Mike, if you will not listen to me, will you not tell Mr. Mouncey
all?"

"Nay, lad, I can tell no one but you. I said to myself I would tell
you, if you came in, but no one else."

"Then will you let me tell Mr. Mouncey what you have told me?" asked
Gus.

After much persuasion, Mike consented to this.

Gus lost no time in seeking Sebastian Mouncey, and repeating to him the
sad story he had heard. He did not see Mike again.

On the following evening, Mr. Mouncey came to tell him that the poor
old man was dead.

Gus was shocked. He had not thought the end so near.

"I thought he would have lingered longer," said Mr. Mouncey. "Poor
fellow! He bitterly repented of his sin. He would have seen Mr. Darnell
and asked his forgiveness, had there been time. Now it is for me to
make his confession known. I think he died in peace, believing God
had forgiven him; but there is something inexpressibly sad in such a
death. Who dare judge him harshly? God only knows the true history
of his life, and how far the sin of others was accountable for the
bitter feelings which drove him to that mad act. Oh, when will men
learn to recognise the bond of their common brotherhood? When will each
understand that he is indeed bound to be his brother's keeper?"

The sad revelation made a profound impression upon Gus, as on many at
Rayleigh.

But when spring flowers were blooming in the hedgerows, and spring
breezes blew over the fields, the winter, with its gloom and misery,
passed from the minds of the younger folk like a dismal dream. It was
a busy time at the mill. The "hands" were beginning to recover some
measure of prosperity. Their homes once more wore an air of comfort,
their faces a look of health and cheerfulness.

But the Mill House stood a gaunt, grim ruin, and it was thought that
Philip Darnell would never care to rebuild it. He seldom came to
Rayleigh, and left the management of the mill almost entirely to Mr.
Ellary. And no one regretted the proprietor's absence. He had had the
chance of winning the love and esteem of his work-people, and he had
let it slip. No concession he might now make could alter the feelings
with which they regarded him.

The colonel began to talk of returning to London for the season. Gus
was strong now, save for the limp that would never be overcome. One day
his grandfather spoke to him of the plans he had made for his future.

"I have engaged a tutor for you, Gus, with whom I hope you will work
your hardest, till you are sufficiently advanced to study with other
young fellows of your age. I know you have good abilities, and, thanks
to the kindness of Mr. Mouncey, you have already received a far better
education than could have been expected under the circumstances. Still,
there are certain things that are necessary to fit you for the position
of a gentleman. Of course I mean you to go to Oxford when you are old
enough. I should have liked you to follow in my steps; I believe you
have the making of a soldier in you, but that unfortunate weakness—"

"I could never be a soldier!" exclaimed Gus involuntarily.

"And why not?" asked the colonel, looking at him with some severity.

"I could never bear to kill others," said Gus, with a shiver; "I should
like work that saved life, not destroyed it."

"That is not the way to look at the subject," said the colonel proudly.
"I maintain that a true soldier saves life when he fights for his
country and his Queen; but really, to hear the way some people talk,
you would think a soldier was a mere butcher. There is no finer
profession for a gentleman than the army."

Gus mused for a few moments over his grandfather's words; then he
said, with some abruptness, "I don't know that I care to follow the
profession of a gentleman."

"What do you mean?" asked the colonel sharply. "Not lead the life of a
gentleman! I thought that was what you had always meant to be."

"Yes, I mean to be a gentleman," said Gus; "but I should not mind if
people did not consider me one. It seems to me that there are two
sorts of gentlemen in the world—the gentleman like Jesus Christ, and
the gentleman who only cares for himself, his pleasures, his ease, his
beautiful things, and does not mind how others toil and slave for him,
nor what they suffer, as long as he gets all he wants."

Colonel Carruthers looked gravely at his young grandson, and was silent
for a minute or two.

"I believe you are right, Gus," he said at last, with somewhat of an
effort. "The experience of life has humbled my pride, and I see some
things now in a different light from that in which I used to view them.

"There are two kinds of gentlemen—the conventional gentleman and the
ideal gentleman. The highest gentleman in the land, as the world ranks
men, has for his motto the words, 'I serve.' And He whom we reverence
as our Lord and Saviour has taught us that true greatness consists in
service.

"I would not for the world have you a useless, fine gentleman, Gus.
But, my dear boy, you need training for the highest service. You must
make the most of the talents God has given you. Since you have the
power to do so, it is right that you should endeavour to attain the
highest culture possible to you, in order that you may serve others in
the best way that you can."

"I will do whatever you wish, sir," Gus replied, feeling the truth of
his grandfather's words. "I am sure that father would have wished me to
learn all that I can."

He spoke impulsively, but when he saw the shadow that fell on his
grandfather's face, he would fain have recalled his last words.



CHAPTER XXII.

CONCLUSION.

TEN years have passed, and their fleet steps have left enduring traces.
Colonel Carruthers' tall, spare figure is less erect than formerly,
his sight less keen, his memory less certain. He can no longer refuse
to recognise the fact that he is an old man. He is glad to lean on the
strong arm of his grandson when they walk together, glad to depend on
him in many ways.

Miss Durrant continues to be the colonel's housekeeper, and is still
a prey to nervous terrors, whilst believing herself one of the most
strong-minded of her sex. The colonel's daughter and her younger
children are frequent guests at his house; the young people are
ardently attached to their cousin Gus, who is often to be found there,
whilst their mother could hardly love him better if he were her son.
Edith's visits to her grandfather's home are less frequent and of less
duration than formerly; for some years since she went to a home of her
own, and that none other than the old vicarage at Rayleigh.

At one time Colonel Carruthers would hardly have deemed Sebastian
Mouncey a match for the granddaughter he loved so well; but his regard
for the hardworking clergyman has strengthened considerably since he
discovered in Mr. Mouncey's protégé the child of his own lost son;
and, moreover, the colonel has learned to esteem goodness the highest
nobility.

Edith was never ambitious in the world's sense; she has the noble
ambition to serve others and make their lives brighter and better,
so in working for the cottagers at Rayleigh she has found her right
vocation, and is proving a true help-meet to the busy pastor.

And Gus. Let us look at him as on a March morning he enters the city
hospital, in which he is studying as a medical student. He has given
himself to the profession of medicine with all the enthusiasm of his
warm, sound nature. He has the highest ideal of what the life of a
physician should be, and the more material aspects of his calling
cannot destroy it. To him, it seems to present the grandest possibility
of following in the steps of the Lord Christ, and in little things as
in great exhibiting the spirit of that "first true Gentleman that ever
breathed."

He has applied himself with such energy to his studies, that already
he is looked upon as one who promises to take a high position in his
profession. No day, no hour scarcely of the past ten years, has been
suffered to slip by without yielding him some permanent gain.

He is a man now. On his brow are the perpendicular lines which indicate
hard thinking; his expression is grave and earnest, but he has still
somewhat of the old boyish grace. His blue eyes have the same frank,
kindly glance, and when he smiles, as one of his comrades addresses him
playfully, it is with the bright, winsome smile of yore.

As Gus enters the women's medical ward, and passes along it, his eyes
are quick to observe a fresh patient. A young woman, with a white,
worn, patient face, lies in a bed to his left. She looks very ill; but
it is not her suffering appearance which makes him halt suddenly before
her. There is something familiar in that patient countenance, in those
sad, grey eyes.

"Lucy!" he exclaims, in a tone of astonishment. "Lucy!"

"That is my name," she replies, with a startled look; "but I do not
know—"

"Lucy Lucas," he returns; "Lucy Lucas, who used to live at Lavender
Terrace."

A hot, painful flush dyes the face of the young woman.

"Yes," she replies, "I was called by that name once; but it is long
ago, and I cannot understand how you should know about me."

"Have you forgotten Gus?" he asks. "Poor, ragged little Gus?"

"Gus!" she exclaims, looking pleased. "You don't mean to say that you
are that little Gus! 'Gentleman Gus' they used to call you. Oh, I have
so often wondered what had become of you; but I little thought to find
you here! And to think that you should know me again!"

"You have not altered much," says Gus; "only I am sorry to see you
looking ill. I, too, have often wondered about you, and where you went
when you left the Terrace so suddenly. But never mind that now," he
adds gently, as he sees her look of pain. "You shall tell me about that
by-and-by; I'll tell my story first."

And, regardless of the fact that the work of the day is before him,
he sits down beside her, and tells her the history of his life since
they parted. She listens with close attention; but presently, he has to
hurry away, with the promise that he will see her again in the evening.

It is growing dusk when again he finds himself at leisure to sit and
talk with her; but he has found time during the day to inquire of the
house surgeon concerning her. He learned that she was very ill. The
long-seated hip disease had taken a new development; terrible abscesses
were sapping her strength, which had been reduced, the surgeon thought,
by poor living and close, sedentary occupation. As he heard it, Gus
resolved within himself that there should be no more of that for Lucy.
He was relieved to hear the surgeon say he did not consider the case a
hopeless one.

"Lucy," says Gus gently, as he sits beside her, "will you not tell me
about your life since last I saw you? You need not fear to speak freely
to me. Where is your father?"

Once more the warm colour of shame rises in poor Lucy's face. For a few
moments she cannot speak; then she summons courage to whisper—

"In prison, Gus."

Gus' face reflects the sorrow on hers.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Lucy," he says. "And yet—perhaps—"

"It is best," she murmurs; "it was terrible living as we did before.
Do you remember the great burglary at Harrow, two years ago, when the
burglars were captured?"

"To be sure, I remember it," says Gus; "there were three men, but their
names—"

"Oh, my father never passed long by the same name. Our real name is
Smith. My father and Jack were both concerned in the robbery; but
they only sentenced Jack for seven years. My father shot a man in the
struggle. He did not kill him, happily, but it made his guilt the
greater, and he was sentenced for fourteen years."

"And you have been alone ever since?"

"Yes, I have been trying to earn money by needlework; but it has been
so hard. They pay so little for it at the shops."

"My poor Lucy!" says Gus, with a sad smile. "I can see you have had a
hard struggle; but you shall not go back to that life, Lucy. We will
do all we can for you here; you must make up your mind to get well
quickly, and when you are strong enough, I will send you to a pretty
country place, where a lady, my cousin, will take good care of you,
and find plenty of work for your clever needle. Don't cry; there are
brighter days before you, I believe."

"You are very kind, Gus; you always were kind," Lucy replies, in a
voice choked by tears. "I should not wish to get well; I have still
the old longing for rest; but I have learned that our lives are in the
hands of One who loves us, and knows better than we what is good for
us, and whilst there is any chance of my helping father I would not
die. I pray for him every day, and I trust that he may yet be saved
from sin."

"God grant it!" says Gus earnestly. "Never give up hoping and praying,
Lucy. There is no sinner whom Jesus Christ cannot save. I have learned
that."

Leaving the hospital, Gus turns his steps towards a house in a quiet
street close by, where he lodges from Monday till Saturday, for his
grandfather's house at Norwood is too far from the hospital for him to
return thither every night. It is a neat, respectable-looking house.
The doorstep is clean; the window curtains as white as the London smoke
will permit.

As Gus stands on the step, feeling for his latchkey, the door is opened
from within, and a stout, comely woman, in middle life, appears with
a tall, gaunt, anxious-looking woman by her side. Does the reader
recognise an old acquaintance? In her tidy black dress and white apron,
with her abundant tresses smoothly brushed and braided, and a more
subdued expression than she wore in the old days, Sally Dent is indeed
changed almost past recognition. And the big awkward-looking lad of
about fourteen, who is now visible at the end of the passage, was the
unwieldy baby whom Gus used to carry about with such good-will.

Sally's eyes brighten as she sees Gus, and she exclaims, "Oh, Mr.
Carruthers, I am glad you're come in! This is Mrs. Minn, as used to
live in Lavender Terrace. Maybe you remember her? She's in great
trouble about her daughter, as is took very bad. She wants to get her
into the 'ospital. I told her I knew you'd be willing to do what you
could."

Gus does remember Mrs. Minn. He shakes hands with her kindly, and makes
many inquiries concerning her husband and family. He takes her into
his own room, hears all about her daughter's case, clearly explains to
her the steps she must take to secure admission to the hospital, and
promises such help as he can give.

When at length, cheered by his kindness, Mrs. Minn takes her departure,
she pauses for a moment at the door to say confidentially to Sally
Dent, "He's a good one, he is. He ain't a bit ashamed to remember that
he was once as poor as any of us. There are not many like he."

"No, indeed," responds Sally, and then a lump seems to rise in her
throat, and check further utterance. She is thinking of all Gus has
done for her,—how he sought her out in her wretched home; how he
befriended her when she had sunk low in sin and shame. A poor, degraded
wreck of womanhood, others would have cried, "Let the wreck lie; its
recovery is hopeless!"

But not so he. How he had striven to win her back to sobriety! She
herself had despaired of ever breaking from the sore slavery of drink;
but he had encouraged her to persevere with the struggle. She had
signed the pledge only to break it; she had relapsed again and again,
and begged him to leave her to herself; but he would not give her up.
It was through his kindness that she had been settled in this house,
with medical students for her lodgers, and he had helped to place her
children in respectable positions.

And now she is saved, redeemed in body and spirit, by the grace of
Christ, from the awful power of sin! Work as she may—and she has
learned what work means—can she ever do enough to show her gratitude to
him who, under God, has been her deliverer?

The thought of it all well-nigh overpowers her, and what she feels is
not to be expressed. When words become possible, she only says in her
most emphatic manner, "Ay, he is a gentleman, he is."



                           THE END.



Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney Ld., London and Aylesbury.








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