"I don't think you need be uneasy on that score," he said. "You see it's all come about in a rather—uncommon sort of way."

"I should rather think so," said the farmer, shrugging his shoulders, but smiling too.

"And," pursued Jowett, "you'll have to stretch a point or two. Of course he'll want very little in the way of wages to begin."

"Half-a-crown a week and his victuals," replied the farmer, promptly. "And he must bind himself for three months certain—I'm not going to be thrown out of a boy at the orkardest time of the year for getting 'em into sharp ways. And I can't have no asking for holidays for three months, either."

Jowett looked at Geoff.

"Very well," said Geoff.

"And you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "You can manage it well enough, and Sunday school, too, if you're sharp—there's only twice to the station on Sundays."

"On Sundays, too?" repeated Geoff. Sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home.

"To be sure," said Eames, sharply. "Beasts can't do for themselves on Sundays no more than any other day. And Londoners can't drink sour milk on Sundays neither."

"No," said Geoff, meekly enough. "Of course I'm used to church," he added, "but I think I'm rather too old for the Sunday school."

"I'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "Well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. It's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, Mr. Jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation.

"Why not call me Ned? You're very high in your manners to-day, Eames," said the other, with a sort of wink.

Then they both laughed and walked on, leaving Geoff to follow. Nothing was said about his being hungry.

"Perhaps I shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought.



CHAPTER IX.

PIGS, ETC.

It was not quite so bad as that, however. Farmer Eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. A stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking.

"Here we are again, wife," said Eames. "Glad to see dinner's ready. Take a chair, Mr. Ned. You'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "This here's the new boy, missis—I've settled to give him a trial."

Mrs. Eames murmured something, which Geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. She was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, Geoff noticed that it was very red—redder than a moment before. He could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy.

"Shall I help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan.

Eames burst out laughing.

"That's a good joke," he said. "He knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow."

Geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when Jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. Eames must have his joke."

"I see naught to laugh at," said Mrs. Eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough."

"You're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "It's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. Sit thee down, Ned; and Jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and I'll give you some dinner by-and-by."

Geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. He sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till Mr. and Mrs. Eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. But from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at Geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband.

"She means to be kind," thought the boy.

And her kindness apparently had some effect. The farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside.

"Will you have a sup, Jim?" he said good-naturedly. "I can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way."



"No, thank you," Geoff replied. "I never take beer; moth——" but he stopped suddenly.

"As you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, I dare say you're hungry."

He cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. The slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but Geoff was faint with hunger. He took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. But, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. Half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home—the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china—and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the Atlantic. He drank some water—for on his refusing beer, Mrs. Eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; it was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. And by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again.

"And what are you going to be about, Eames?" said Jowett. "I'll walk round the place with you, if you like. I must take the four train up again."

"All right," the farmer replied; "Jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. You'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. Do 'ee know how to drive a bit?"

"Oh yes," replied Geoff, eagerly. "I drove a good deal last summer at—in the country. And I know I was very fond of it."

"Well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. But the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. Now, I'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. It'll want emptying—eh, wife?"

"It do that," she replied. "But he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. Those are your best ones, ain't they?"

Geoff looked down at his suit. It was not his best, for he had left his Eton jackets and trousers behind him. The clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. But now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in.

"I've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket."

"He should have a rougher one," said Mrs. Eames. "I'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of George's as'd make down."

"All right," said Eames. "But you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. Whoever heard o' such a thing?"

Just then a voice was heard at the door.

"I'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy."

"All right," said Eames; and, followed by Geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard.

It was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. Matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. Eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with Jowett.

"Them's the stables," said Matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "Old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. I've nought to say to pony; it's your business. And I'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. Young folks has no call to be idle."

"I don't mean to be idle," said Geoff; "but if Mr. Eames doesn't find fault with me, you've no call to do so either."

He spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for Matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. He muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation.

"Them's pigs," said he. Matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. Articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics.

Geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. Grunt, grumph, snort—out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. Poor things! it was still empty. Geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them.

"I'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "I don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty."

"Ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said Matthew, with a grin. He hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not.

"No," said Geoff, "I'll not do that till the first of April; but I'll tell you what, Matthew, I'll not keep them as dirty as they are. And I should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." Matthew scowled. "Pigs don't need to be so dirty," Geoff went on. "I know at Cole——" But he stopped abruptly. He was certainly not going to take Matthew into his confidence. He asked to be shown the pony—poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity"—and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner.

Very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of Mrs. Eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. It wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "Matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. But Geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there might be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. He would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it.

He was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when Eames and Jowett came back from the fields.

"Time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. Geoff turned off to the stable. He wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to Matthew, had not Jowett strolled into the stable. He felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready.

"Been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "Seems a bit strange at first."

"I don't mind the work; but—it does all seem very rough," said Geoff.

There was a slight quiver in his voice, but Jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. Geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. He liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous.

"Is there anything I can do for you on my way through town?" asked Jowett. "I'll be in your part of the world to-night."

"Are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked Geoff.

Jowett nodded.

"I wish——" began the boy. "If I'd thought of it, I'd have written a letter for you to post in London. But there's no time now."

Jowett looked at his watch—a very good silver watch it was—"I don't know that," he said. "I can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and I'll see that your letter gets to—wherever it is, at once."

"Thank you," said Geoff. "And Jowett"—he hesitated. "You've been very good to me—would you mind one thing more? There's some one I would like to hear from sometimes, but I don't want to give my address. Could I tell them—her—it's my sister—to write to your place, and you to send it to me?"

"To be sure," said Jowett. "But I won't give my address in the country. You just say to send on the letter to the care of

'MR. ABEL SMITH, LIVERY STABLES, MOWBRAY PLACE MEWS,'

and I'll see it comes straight to you. You won't want to give your name maybe? Just put 'Mr. James, care of Abel Smith.'"

"Thank you," said Geoff, with a sigh of relief. "You see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and I'd like to know how—how they are."

"To be sure," said Jowett again; "it's only natural. And however bad one's been treated by one's people—and it's easy to see they must have treated you oncommon badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though I respects you for it all the more—still own folks is own folks."

He cast a shrewd glance at Geoff, as he spoke. The boy could not help colouring. Had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? Was his determination to run away and be independent of Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? Would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for Mr. Byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance.

"But anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves.

At the station, Jowett was as good as his word. He got the paper and a pencil, and Geoff wrote a short note to Vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. And Jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. Had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any Londoner.

But as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. And it was a very subdued and home-sick Geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them.



CHAPTER X.

POOR GEOFF!

He drove into the yard, where Matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. Half forgetting himself, Geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. He was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back.

"Dost think I's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "May stand till doomsday afore I'll touch him."



Geoff turned back. Of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if Matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder—more gratefully, I dare say, than he had often thanked Elsa or Frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. But, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. It was all so strange and new too; at Colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. He did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and Geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. And at last old Dapple was made as comfortable as Geoff knew how, for Matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand.

The fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to Geoff smelt very nasty. He coughed, to attract Mr. Eames's attention.

"I've brought my bag from the station," he said. "Will you tell me where I'm to sleep?"

The farmer looked up sharply.

"You've brought the milk-cans back, too, I suppose? Your bag's not the principal thing. Have you seen to Dapple?"

"Yes," said Geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky.

Eames looked at him again, and still more sharply.

"I told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "You'll say 'sir' when you speak to me."

But just then Mrs. Eames fortunately made her appearance.

"Don't scold him—he's only a bit strange," she said. "Come with me, Jim, and I'll show you your room."

"Thank you," said the boy, gratefully.

Mrs. Eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. Then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, Geoff saw a very small, very bare room. There was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall.

Mrs. Eames looked round. "It's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "Master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. Cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." Then she gave him the light, and turned to go.

"Please," said Geoff, meekly, "might I have a piece of bread? I'm rather hungry." It was long past his usual tea-time.

"To be sure!" she replied. "You've not had your tea? I put it on the hob for you." And the good woman bustled off again.

Geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. She poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. Then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. Geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. But it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. It was the thought of tea-time at home—the neat table, and Vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked—that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. He felt as if he could not bear it. He swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. Then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer.

"Shall I go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "I'm—I'm rather tired."

"Go to bed?" repeated Eames. "Yes, I suppose so. You must turn out early—the milk must be at the station by half-past five."

"How shall I wake?" asked Geoff, timidly.

"Wake? You'll have to learn to wake like others do. However, for the first, I'll tell Matthew to knock you up."

"Thank you. Good-night, sir."

"Good-night." And the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading.

"You'll find your bed well aired. I made Betsy see to that," called out Mrs. Eames.

"Thank you," said Geoff again, more heartily this time. But he overheard Eames grumbling at his wife as he left the room, telling her "he'd have none of that there coddling of the lad."

"And you'd have him laid up with rheumatics—dying of a chill? That'd be a nice finish up to it all. You know quite well——" But Geoff heard no more. And he was too worn-out and sleepy to think much of what he had heard.

He got out what he required for the night. He wondered shiveringly how it would be possible to wash with only a basin. Water he was evidently expected to fetch for himself. He tried to say his prayers, but fell asleep, the tears running down his face, in the middle, and woke up with a sob, and at last managed somehow to tumble into bed. It was very cold, but, as Mrs. Eames had said, quite dry. The chilly feeling woke him again, and he tried once more to say his prayers, and this time with better success. He was able to add a special petition that "mother" might soon be well again, and that dear Vicky might be happy. And then he fell asleep—so soundly, so heavily, that when a drumming at the door made itself heard, he fancied he had only just begun the night. He sat up. Where was he? At first, in the darkness, he thought he was in his own bed at home, and he wondered who was knocking so roughly—wondered still more at the rude voice which was shouting out—

"Up with you there, Jim, d'ye hear? I'm not a-going to stand here all day. It's past half-past four. Jim—you lazy lout. I'll call master if you don't speak—a-locking of his door like a fine gentleman!"

Gradually Geoff remembered all—the feeling of the things about him—the coarse bed-clothes, the slightly mildewy smell of the pillow, helped to recall him to the present, even before he could see.



"I'm coming, Matthew!" he shouted back. "I'll be ready in five minutes;" and out of bed he crept, sleepy and confused, into the chilly air of the little room. He had no matches, but there was a short curtain before the window, and when he pulled it back the moonlight came faintly in—enough for him to distinguish the few objects in the room. He dared not attempt to wash, he was so afraid of being late. He managed to get out his oldest pair of trousers, and hurried on his clothes as fast as he could, feeling miserably dirty and slovenly, and thinking to himself he would never again be hard on poor people for not being clean! "I must try to wash when I come back," he said to himself. Then he hurried out, and none too soon.



Matthew was in the yard, delighted to frighten him. "You'll have to look sharp," he said, as Geoff hurried to the stable. "Betsy's filling the cans, and rare and cross she is at having to do it. You should have been there to help her, and the missis'll be out in a minute."

The harnessing of Dapple was not easy in the faint light, and he could not find the stable lantern. But it got done at last, and Geoff led the cart round to the dairy door, where Betsy was filling the last of the cans. She was not so cross as she might have been, and Mrs. Eames had not yet appeared. They got the cans into the cart, and in a minute or two Geoff found himself jogging along the road, already becoming familiar, to the station.

It seemed to grow darker instead of lighter, for the moon had gone behind a cloud, and sunrise was still a good time off. Geoff wondered dreamily to himself why people need get up so early in the country, and then remembered that it would take two or three hours for the cans to get to London. How little he or Vicky had thought, when they drank at breakfast the nice milk which Mrs. Tudor had always taken care to have of the best, of the labour and trouble involved in getting it there in time! And though he had hurried so, he was only just at the station when the train whizzed in, and the one sleepy porter growled at him for not having "looked sharper," and banged the milk-cans about unnecessarily in his temper, so that Geoff was really afraid they would break or burst open, and all the milk come pouring out.

"You'll have to be here in better time for the twelve train," he said crossly. "I'm not a-going to do this sort o' work for you nor no chap, if you can't be here in time."

Geoff did not answer—he was getting used to sharp words and tones. He nearly fell asleep in the cart as he jogged home again, and to add to his discomfort a fine, small, chill, November rain began to fall. He buttoned up his jacket, and wished he had put on his overcoat; and then he laughed rather bitterly to think how absurd he would look with this same overcoat, which had been new only a month before, driving old Dapple in the milk-cart. He was wet and chilled to the bone when he reached the farm, and even if he had energy to drive a little faster he would not have dared to do so, after the farmer's warning.

Mrs. Eames was in the kitchen when, after putting up the cart and pony, Geoff came in. There was a delicious fragrance of coffee about which made his mouth water, but he did not even venture to go near the fire. Mrs. Eames heard him, however, and looked up. She started a little at the sight of his pale, wan face.

"Bless me, boy!" she exclaimed, "but you do look bad. Whatever's the matter?"

Geoff smiled a little—he looked very nice when he smiled; it was only when he was in one of his ill-tempered moods that there was anything unlovable in his face—and his smile made Mrs. Eames still more sorry for him.

"There's nothing the matter, thank you," he said; "I'm only rather cold—and wet. I'm strange to it all, I suppose. I wanted to know what I should do next. Should I feed the pigs?"

"Have you met the master?" said the farmer's wife. "He's gone down the fields with Matthew and the others. Didn't you meet 'em?"

Geoff shook his head.

"No; I went straight to the stable when I came back from the station."

"You'd better take off your wet jacket," she said. "There—hang it before the fire. And," she went on, "there's a cup of coffee still hot, you can have for your breakfast this morning as you're so cold—it'll warm you better nor stir-about; and there's a scrap o' master's bacon you can eat with your bread."

She poured out the coffee, steaming hot, and forked out the bacon from the frying-pan as she spoke, and set all on the corner of the dresser nearest to the fire.

"Thank you, thank you awfully," said Geoff. Oh, how good the coffee smelt! He had never enjoyed a meal so much, and yet, had it been at home, how he would have grumbled! Coffee in a bowl, with brown sugar—bread cut as thick as your fist, and no butter! Truly Geoff was already beginning to taste some of the sweet uses of adversity.

Breakfast over, came the pigs. The farmer had left word that the sty was to be cleaned out, and fresh straw fetched for the pigs' beds; and as Betsy was much more good-natured than Matthew in showing the new boy what was expected of him, he got on pretty well, even feeling a certain pride in the improved aspect of the pig-sty when he had finished. He would have dearly liked to try a scrubbing of the piggies themselves, if he had not been afraid of Matthew's mocking him. But besides this there was not time. At eleven the second lot of milk had to be carted to the station, and with the remembrance of the cross porter Geoff dared not be late. And in the still falling rain he set off again, though, thanks to Mrs. Eames, with a dry jacket, and, thanks to her too, with a horse-rug buckled round him, in which guise surely no one would have recognized Master Geoffrey Tudor.

After dinner the farmer set him to cleaning out the stables, which it appeared was to be a part of his regular work; then there were the pigs to feed again, and at four o'clock the milk-cans to fetch. Oh, how tired Geoff was getting of the lane to the station! And the day did not come to an end without his getting into terrible disgrace for not having rinsed out the cans with boiling water the night before, though nobody had told him to do it. For a message had come from London that the cans were dirty and the milk in danger of turning sour, and that if it happened again Farmer Eames would have to send his milk elsewhere. It was natural perhaps that he should be angry, and yet, as no one had explained about it to Geoff, it seemed rather hard for him to have to take the scolding. Very hard indeed it seemed to him—to proud Geoff, who had never yet taken in good part his mother's mildest reprimands. And big boy though he was, he sobbed himself to sleep this second night of his new life, for it did seem too much, that when he had been trying his very best to please, and was aching in every limb from his unwonted hard work, he should get nothing but scolding. And yet he knew that he was lucky to have fallen into such hands as Farmer Eames's, for, strict as he was, he was a fair and reasonable master.

"I suppose," thought Geoff, "I have never really known what hardships were, though I did think I had plenty to bear at home."

What would Elsa have said had she heard him?



CHAPTER XI.

"HOOT-TOOT" BEHIND THE HEDGE.

That first day at the farm was a pretty fair specimen of those that followed. The days grew into weeks and the weeks into one month, and then into two, and Geoff went on with his self-chosen hard and lonely life. The loneliness soon came to be the worst of it. He got used to the hardships so far, and after all they were not very terrible ones. He was better taken care of than he knew, and he was a strong and healthy lad. Had he felt that he was working for others, had he been cheered by loving and encouraging letters, he could have borne it all contentedly. But no letters came, no answer to his note to Vicky begging her to write; and Geoff's proud heart grew prouder and, he tried to think, harder.

"They would let me know, somehow, I suppose, if there was anything much the matter—if—mamma had not got much better yet." For even to himself he would not allow the possibility of anything worse than her not being "much better." And yet she had looked very ill that last evening. He thought of it sometimes in the middle of the night, and started up in a sort of agony of fright, feeling as if at all costs he must set off there and then to see her—to know how she was. Often he did not fall asleep again for hours, and then he would keep sobbing and crying out from time to time, "Oh, mamma, mamma!" But there was no one to hear. And with the morning all the proud, bitter feelings would come back again. "They don't care for me. They are thankful to be rid of me;" and he would picture his future life to himself, friendless and homeless, as if he never had had either friends or home. Sometimes he planned that when he grew older he would emigrate, and in a few years, after having made a great fortune, he would come home again, a millionaire, and shower down coals of fire in the shape of every sort of luxury upon the heads of his unnatural family.

But these plans did not cheer him as they would have done some months ago. His experiences had already made him more practical—he knew that fortunes were not made nowadays in the Dick Whittington way—he was learning to understand that not only are there but twenty shillings in a pound, but, which concerned him more closely, that there are but twelve pence in a shilling, and only thirty in half-a-crown! He saw with dismay the increasing holes in his boots, and bargained hard with the village cobbler to make him cheap a rough, strong pair, which he would never have dreamt of looking at in the old days; he thanked Mrs. Eames more humbly for the well-worn corduroy jacket she made down for him than he had ever thanked his mother for the nice clothes which it had not always been easy for her to procure for him. Yes, Geoff was certainly learning some lessons.



Sundays were in one way the worst, for though he had less to do, he had more time for thinking. He went twice to church, where he managed to sit in a corner out of sight, so that if the tears did sometimes come into his eyes at some familiar hymn or verse, no one could see. And no more was said about the Sunday school, greatly to his relief, for he knew the clergyman would have cross-questioned him. On Sunday afternoons he used to saunter about the park and grounds of Crickwood Bolders. He liked it, and yet it made him melancholy. The house was shut up, but it was easy to see it was a dear old place—just the sort of "home" of Geoff's wildest dreams.

"If we were all living there together, now," he used to say to himself—"mamma quite well and not worried about money—Elsa and Frances would be so happy, we'd never squabble, and Vicky——" But at the idea of Vicky's happiness, words failed him.

It was, it must be allowed, a come-down from such beautiful fancies, to have to hurry back to the farm to harness old Dapple and jog off to the station with the milk. For even on Sundays people can't do without eating and drinking.



One Sunday a queer thing happened. He was just turning home, and passing the lodge at the principal entrance to the Hall, as it was called, when behind the thick evergreen hedge at one side of the little garden he heard voices. They were speaking too low for him to distinguish the words; but one voice sounded to him very like Eames's. It might be so, for the farmer and the lodge-keeper were friends. And Geoff would have walked on without thinking anything of it, had not a sudden exclamation caught his ear—"Hoot-toot, hoot-toot! I tell you——" But instantly the voice dropped. It sounded as if some one had held up a warning finger. Geoff stood still in amazement. Could Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot be there? It seemed too impossible. But the boy's heart beat fast with a vague feeling of expectation and apprehension mixed together.

"If he has come here accidentally, he must not see me," he said to himself; and he hurried down the road as fast as he could, determined to hasten to the station and back before the old gentleman, if it were he, could get there. But to his surprise, on entering the farm-yard, the first person to meet him was Mr. Eames himself.

"What's the matter, my lad?" he said good humouredly. "Thou'st staring as if I were a ghost."

"I thought—I thought," stammered Geoff, "that I saw—no, heard your voice just now at the lodge."

Eames laughed.

"But I couldn't be in two places at once, could I? Well, get off with you to the station."

All was as usual of a Sunday there. No one about, no passengers by the up-train—only the milk-cans; and Geoff, as he drove slowly home again, almost persuaded himself that the familiar "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" must have been altogether his own fancy.

But had he been at the little railway-station again an hour or two later, he would have had reason to change his opinion. A passenger did start from Shalecray by the last train for town; and when this same passenger got out at Victoria, he hailed a hansom, and was driven quickly westward. And when he arrived at his destination, and rang the bell, almost before the servant had had time to open the door, a little figure pressed eagerly forward, and a soft, clear voice exclaimed—

"Oh, dear uncle, is that you at last? I've been watching for you such a long time. Oh, do—do tell me about Geoff! Did you see him? And oh, dear uncle, is he very unhappy?"

"Come upstairs, my pet," said the old man, "and you shall hear all I can tell."

The three awaiting him in the drawing-room were nearly as eager as the child. The mother's face grew pale with anxiety, the sisters' eyes sparkled with eagerness.

"Did you find him easily, uncle? Was it where you thought?" asked Vicky.

"Yes, yes; I had no difficulty. I saw him, Vicky, but without his seeing me. He has grown, and perhaps he is a little thinner, but he is quite well. And I had an excellent account of him from the farmer. He is working steadily, and bearing manfully what, to a boy like him, cannot but be privations and hardships. But I am afraid he is very unhappy—his face had a set sad look in it that I do not like to see on one so young. I fear he never got your letters, Vicky. There must have been some mistake about the address. I didn't want to push the thing too far. You must write again, my little girl—say all you can to soften him. What I want is that it should come from his side. He will respect himself all his life for overcoming his pride, and asking to be forgiven, only we must try to make it easy for him, poor fellow! Now go to bed, Vicky, child, and think over what you will write to him to-morrow. I want to talk it all over with your mother. Don't be unhappy about poor old Geoff, my dear."

Obedient Vicky jumped up at once to go to bed. She tried to whisper "Good night" as she went the round of the others to kiss them, but the words would not come, and her pretty blue eyes were full of tears. Still, Vicky's thoughts and dreams were far happier that night than for a long time past.

As soon as she had closed the door after her, the old gentleman turned to the others.

"She doesn't know any more than we agreed upon?" he asked.

"No," said Elsa; "she only knows that you got his exact address from the same person who has told you about him from time to time. She has no idea that the whole thing was planned and arranged by you from the first, when you found he was set upon leaving home."

Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot nodded his head.

"That is all right. Years hence, when he has grown up into a good and sensible man, we may, or if I am no longer here, you may tell him all about it, my dears. But just now it would mortify him, and prevent the lesson from doing him the good we hope for. I should not at all like him to know I had employed detectives. He would be angry at having been taken in. That Jowett is a very decent fellow, and did his part well; but he has mismanaged the letters somehow. I must see him about that. What was the address Geoff gave in his note to Vicky? Are you sure she put it right?"

"Oh yes," said Frances; "I saw it both times. It was—

'TO MR. JAMES, CARE OF MR. ADAM SMITH, MURRAY PLACE MEWS.'"

"Hoot-toot!" said Mr. Byrne. He could not make it out. But we, who know in what a hurry Geoff wrote his note at the railway-station while Jowett was waiting to take it, can quite well understand why Vicky's letters had never reached him. For the address he should have given was—

"ABEL SMITH, Mowbray PLACE MEWS."

"This time," Mr. Byrne went on, "I'll see that the letter is sent to him direct. Jowett must manage it. Let Vicky address as before, and I'll see that it reaches him."

"What do you think she should write?" said Mrs. Tudor, anxiously.

"What she feels. It does not much matter. But let her make him understand that his home is open to him as ever—that he is neither forgotten nor thought of harshly. If I mistake not, from what I saw and what Eames told me, he will be so happy to find it is so, that all the better side of his character will come out. And he will say more to himself than any of us would ever wish to say to him."

"But, uncle dear," said Elsa, "if it turns out as you hope, and poor Geoff comes home again and is all you and mamma wish—and—if all your delightful plans are realized, won't Geoff find out everything you don't want him to know at present? Indeed, aren't you afraid he may have heard already that you are the new squire there?"

"No," said Mr. Byrne. "Eames is a very cautious fellow; and from having known me long ago, or rather from his father having known me (it was I that got my cousin to give him the farm some years ago, as I told you), I found it easy to make him understand all I wished. Crickwood Bolders has stood empty so long, that the people about don't take much interest in it. They only know vaguely that it has changed hands lately, and Eames says I am spoken of as the new Mr. Bolders, and not by my own name."

"I see," said Elsa.

"And," continued Mr. Byrne, "of course Geoff will take it for granted that it was by the coincidence of his getting taken on at my place that we found him out. It was a coincidence that he should have taken it into his head to go down to that part of the country, through its being on the way to Colethorne's."

"And you say that he is really working hard, and—and making the best of things?" asked Mrs. Tudor. She smiled a little as she said it. Geoff's "making the best of things" was such a very new idea.

"Yes," replied Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. "Eames gives him the best of characters. He says the boy is thoroughly to be depended upon, and that his work is well done, even to cleaning the pigs; and, best of all, he is never heard to grumble."

"Fancy Geoff cleaning the pigs!" exclaimed Elsa.

"I don't know that I find that so difficult to fancy," said Frances. "I think Geoff has a real love for animals of all kinds, and for all country things. We would have sympathized with him about it if it hadn't been for his grumbling, which made all his likes and dislikes seem unreal. I think what I pity him the most for is the having to get up so dreadfully early these cold winter mornings. What time did you say he had to get up, uncle?"



"He has to be at the station with the milk before five every morning," said the old gentleman, grimly. "Eames says his good woman is inclined to 'coddle him a bit'—she can't forget who he really is, it appears. I was glad to hear it; I don't want the poor boy actually to suffer—and I don't want it to go on much longer. I confess I don't see that there can be much 'coddling' if he has to be up and out before five o'clock in the morning at this time of the year."

"No, indeed," said the girls. "And he must be so lonely."

"Yes, poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "I saw that in his face. And I was glad to see it. It shows the lesson is not a merely surface one. You've had your wish for him to some extent, Elsa, my dear. He has at last known some hardships."

Elsa's eyes filled with tears, though Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot had had no thought of hurting her.

"Don't say that, please," she entreated. "I think—I am sure—I only wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for any one's else even."

"I know, I know," the old gentleman agreed. "But I think he has had about enough of it. See that Vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow."



CHAPTER XII.

A LETTER AT LAST.

Christmas had come and gone. It brought Geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. He had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of December with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a Christmas card. And for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter—was he sure there was no letter for James Jeffreys? But the postman only shook his head. He had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of Mr. Eames,'" as Geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. And when not only Christmas, but New Year's Day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope.

"It is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "I think they might think a little of me. They might be sorry for me, even—even if I did worry them all when I was at home. They might guess how lonely I am. It isn't the hard work. If it was for mother I was working, and if I knew they were all pleased with me, I wouldn't mind it. But I can't bear to go on like this."

Yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for Mr. Byrne's charity. And every feeling of independence and manliness in Geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. Still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "Work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. He could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. And gradually another idea took shape in his mind—he would emigrate! He saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months.

"And then," thought Geoff, "I might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things I have at home I might get the rest of the money. Or—I would not even mind taking it as a loan from Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. That would seem different; and of course I do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only I were a man that would be my business."

And for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. His old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. But these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he could not bear it any longer. And he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened.

It was about six weeks after the Sunday on which he had thought he had overheard Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's voice through the hedge. It was a Sunday again. Geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the Hall, when a sudden exclamation from Mrs. Eames made him look up. The farmer's wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser.



As she did so, a letter fell forward. It was addressed in a clear, good hand to

"JAMES JEFFREYS, AT MR. EAMES'S, CRICKWOOD FARM, SHALECRAY."

"Bless me!" cried the good woman. "What's this a-doing here? Jem, boy, 'tis thine. When can it have come? It may have been up there a good bit."

Geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand.

"Give it me! oh, give it me, please!" he said, in an eager, trembling voice. A look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. For it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, "I forward enclosed, as agreed.—Ned Jowett." And the second envelope was addressed to "Mr. James" in a round, childish hand, that Geoff knew well. It was Vicky's.

He darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. He could not have read the letter before any one. Already the tears were welling up into his eyes. And long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. This was what Vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old!

"MY DARLING GEOFF,

"Why haven't you written to us? I wrote you a letter the minute I got your little note with the address, and I have written to you again since then. Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot says you are sure to get this letter. I think you can't have got the others. But still you might have written. I have been so very unhappy about you. Of course I was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still I have been VERY unhappy. Mamma got better very slowly. I don't think she would have got better if she hadn't heard that you were getting on well, though. She has been very unhappy, too, and so have Elsa and Frances, but poor Vicky most of all. We do so want you at home again. Geoff, I can't tell you how good old Uncle Hoot-Toot is. There is something about money I can't explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn't. Oh, Geoff, darling, do come home. We do all love you so, and mamma and Elsa were only troubled because you didn't seem happy, and you didn't believe that they loved you. I think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. I keep your room so nice. I dust it myself every day. Mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then I have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can't eat so much at ladies' afternoon tea. But I was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. I have wrapped up our teapot, after Harvey had made it very bright, and I won't ever make tea out of it till you come home. Oh, Geoffy, darling, do come home!

"Your loving, unhappy little "VICKY."

The tears came faster and faster—so fast that it was with difficulty Geoff could see to read the last few lines. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. He was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. And with these sobs and tears—good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of—there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. He saw himself as he had really been—selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt.

"Yes," he said to himself, "that was all I really had to complain of. They considered me too much—they spoilt me. But, oh, I would be so different now! Only—I can't go home and say to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot, 'I've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' It would seem too mean. No, I must keep to my plan—it's too late to change. But I think I might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. In three weeks I shall have been here three months, and then I may ask for a holiday. I'll write to Vicky now at once, and tell her so—I can post the letter when I go to the station. They must have thought me so horrid for not having written before. I wonder how it was I never got the other letters? But it doesn't matter now I've got this one. Oh, dear Vicky, I think I shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!"

He had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. And once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing—indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. This was his letter:—

"Crickwood Farm, February 2.

"MY DEAREST VICKY,

"I have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the 15th of January. Mrs. Eames—that's the farmer's wife—found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. I never got your other letters; I can't think what became of them. I've asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. Vicky, I can't tell you all I'd like to say. I thought I'd write to mamma, but I feel as if I couldn't. Will you tell her that I just beg her to forgive me? Not only for leaving home without leave, like I did, but for all the way I went on and all the worry I gave her. I see it all quite plain. I've been getting to see it for a good while, and when I read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. I don't mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home—I wouldn't mind anything if I thought I was doing right. But it's the loneliness. Vicky, I have thought sometimes I'd go out of my mind. Will you ask Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot to forgive me, too? I'd like to understand about all he has done for us, and I think I am much sensibler about money than I was, so perhaps he'll tell me. I can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then I'll come home for one day. I shall have to tell you my plans, and I think mamma will think I'm right. I must work hard, and perhaps in a few years I shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. For I've made up my mind to emigrate. I don't think I'd ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it's very hard work here, I don't mind it, and I love animals, and in the summer it won't be so bad. Please, Vicky, make everybody understand that I hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.—Your very loving

"GEOFF.

"P.S.—You may write here now. I don't mind you all knowing where I am."

By the time Geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. He had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. He was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the Shalecray mail. The man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked.

"By Tuesday," thought Geoff, "I may have a letter if Vicky writes at once. And I might write again next Sunday. So that we'd hear of each other every week."

And this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a Sunday evening, Eames was sitting smoking beside the fire.

"The missis has told me about your letter, Jim," said the farmer. "I'm right-down sorry about it, but I don't rightly know who to blame. It's just got slipped out o' sight."

"Thank you," Geoff replied. "I'm awfully glad to have it now."

"He's never looked so bright since he came," said Mr. Eames to his wife when Geoff had left the room. "He's about getting tired of it, I fancy; and the squire's only too ready to forgive and forget, I take it. But he's a deal o' good stuff in him, has the boy, and so I told the squire. He's a fine spirit of his own, too."

"And as civil a lad as ever I seed," added Mrs. Eames. "No nonsense and no airs. One can tell as he's a real gentleman. All the same, I'll be uncommon glad when he's with his own folk again; no one'd believe the weight it's been on my mind to see as he didn't fall ill with us. And you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn't to be coddled and cosseted. Yet you'd have been none so pleased if he'd got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if I hadn't myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind's been almost more nor I could bear."

"Well, well," said the farmer, soothingly, "all's well as ends well. And you said yourself it'd never 'a' done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us."



CHAPTER XIII.

THE NEW SQUIRE AND HIS FAMILY.

Tuesday brought no letter for Geoff—nor Wednesday, nor even Thursday. His spirits went down again, and he felt bitterly disappointed. Could his friend, the guard, have forgotten to post the letter, after all? he asked himself. This thought kept him up till Thursday evening, when, happening to see the same man at the station, the guard's first words were, "Got any answer to your love-letter yet, eh, Jim? I posted it straight away," and then Geoff did not know what to think.

He did not like to write again. He began to fear that Vicky had been mistaken in feeling so sure that his mother and Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot and Elsa and Frances were all ready to forgive him, and longing for his return. Perhaps they were all still too indignant with him to allow Vicky to write, and he sighed deeply at the thought.

"I will wait till I can ask for a holiday," he said to himself, "and then I will write and say I am coming, and if they won't see me I must just bear it. At least, I am sure mother will see me when the time comes for me to go to America, though it will be dreadful to have to wait till then."

When he got back to the house that evening, the farmer called to him. He had had a letter that morning, though Geoff had not; and had it not been getting dusk, the boy would have seen a slight twinkle in the good man's eyes as he spoke to him.

"Jim, my boy," he said, "I shall want you to do an odd job or so of work the next day or two. The new squire's coming down on Monday to look round a bit. They've been tidying up at the house; did you know?"

Geoff shook his head; he had no time for strolling about the Hall grounds except on Sundays, and on the last Sunday he had been too heavy-hearted to notice any change.

"Do you know anything of gardening?" the farmer went on. "They're very short of hands, and I've promised to help what I could. The rooms on the south side of the house are being got ready, and there's the terrace-walk round that way wants doing up sadly. With this mild weather the snowdrops and crocuses and all them spring flowers is springing up finely; there's lots of them round that south side, and Branch can't spare a man to sort them out and rake over the beds."

"I could do that," said Geoff, his eyes sparkling. "I don't know much about gardening, but I know enough for that." It was a pleasant prospect for him; a day or two's quiet work in the beautiful old garden; he would feel almost like a gentleman again, he thought to himself. "When shall I go, sir?" he went on eagerly.

"Why, the sooner the better," said Mr. Eames. "To-morrow morning. That'll give you two good days. Branch wants it to look nice, for the squire's ladies is coming with him. The south parlour is all ready. There'll be a deal to do to the house—new furniture and all the rest of it. He—the new squire's an old friend of mine and of my father's—and a good friend he's been to me," he added in a lower voice.

"Are they going to live here?" asked Geoff. He liked the idea of working there, but he rather shrank from being seen as a gardener's boy by the new squire and "the ladies." "Though it is very silly of me," he reflected; "they wouldn't look at me; it would never strike them that I was different from any other."

"Going to live here," repeated the farmer; "yes, of course. The new squire would be off his head not to live at Crickwood Bolders, when it belongs to him. A beautiful place as it is too."

"Yes," agreed Geoff, heartily, "it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful place. The squire should be a happy man."

He thought so more and more during the next two days. There was a great charm about the old house and the quaintly laid out grounds in which it stood—especially on the south side, where Geoff's work lay. The weather, too, was delightfully mild just then; it seemed a sort of foretaste of summer, and the boy felt all his old love for the country revive and grow stronger than ever as he raked and weeded and did his best along the terrace walk.

"I wish the squire would make me his gardener," he said to himself once. "But even to be a good gardener I suppose one should learn a lot of things I know nothing about."

Good-will goes a long way, however. Geoff felt really proud of his work by Saturday evening, and on Sunday the farmer took a look at the flower-beds himself, and said he had done well.

"Those beds over yonder look rough still," he went on, pointing to some little distance.

"They don't show from the house," said Geoff, "and Branch says it's too early to do much. There will be frosts again."

"No matter," said Mr. Eames; "I'd like it all to look as tidy as can be for Monday, seeing as I'd promised to help. I'll give you another day off the home-work, Jim. Robins's boy's very pleased to do the station work."



Geoff looked up uneasily. It would be very awkward for him, very awkward indeed, if "Robins's boy" were to do so well as to replace him altogether. But there was a pleasant smile on the farmer's face, which reassured him.

"Very well, sir," he said. "I'll do as you like, of course; but I don't want any one else to do my own work for long."

"All right," said Eames. For a moment Geoff thought he was going to say something more, but if so he changed his mind, and walked quietly away.

Monday saw Geoff again at his post. It was a real early spring day, and he could not help feeling the exhilarating influence of the fresh, sweet air, though his heart was sad and heavy, for his hopes of a reply from Vicky were every day growing fainter and fainter. There was nothing to do but to wait till the time came for a holiday, and then to go up to London and try to see them.

"And if they won't see me or forgive me," thought the boy with a sigh, "I must just work on till I can emigrate."

He glanced up at the terrace as he thought this. He was working this morning at some little distance from the house, but he liked to throw a look every now and then to the beds which he had raked and tidied already; they seemed so neat, and the crocuses were coming out so nicely.

The morning was getting on; Geoff looked at his watch—he had kept it carefully, but he never looked at it now without a feeling that before very long he might have to sell it—it was nearly twelve.

"I must go home to dinner, I suppose," he thought; and he began gathering his tools together. As he did so, some slight sounds reached him from the terrace, and, glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the long windows opening on to it was ajar, and in another moment the figures of two ladies could be seen standing just in the aperture, and seemingly looking out as if uncertain what they were going to do.

"They have come," thought Geoff. "They'll be out here in another instant. I can't help it if it is silly; I should hate ladies and gentlemen to see me working here like a common boy;" and his face grew crimson with the thought.

He hurried his things together, and was looking round to see if he could not make his way out of the grounds without passing near the house, when a quick pattering sound along the gravel startled him. A little girl was running towards him, flying down the sloping path that led from the terrace she came, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her fair hair streaming behind.

"Oh!" was Geoff's first thought, "how like Vicky!"

But it was his first thought only, for almost before he had time to complete it the little girl was beside him—upon him, one might almost say, for her arms were round him, her sweet face, wet with tears of joy, was pressed against his, her dear voice was speaking to him, "Oh, Geoffey, Geoffey! My own Geoffey! It's I—it's your Vicky."

Geoff staggered, and almost fell. For a moment or two he felt so giddy and confused he could not speak. But the feeling soon went away, and the words came only too eagerly.

"How is it? Where have you come from? Do you know the new squire? Where is mamma? Why didn't you write?"

And, laughing and crying, Vicky tried to explain. Did she know the new squire? Could Geoff not guess? Where were they all? Mamma, Elsa, Frances, Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot—where should they be, but in the new squire's own house? Up there on the terrace—yes, they were all up there; they had sent her to fetch him. And she dragged Geoff up with her, Geoff feeling as if he were in a dream, till he felt his mother's and sisters' kisses, and heard "the new squire's" voice sounding rather choky, as he said, "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot! this will never do—never do, Geoff, my boy."

They let Vicky explain it all in her own way. How Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot had come home from India, meaning to take them all to live with him in the old house which had come to be his. How disappointed he had been by Geoff's selfish, discontented temper, and grumbling, worrying ways, and had been casting about how best to give him a lesson which should last, when Geoff solved the puzzle for him by going off of his own accord.

"And," Vicky went on innocently, "was it not wonderful that you should have come to uncle's own place, and got work with Mr. Eames, whom he has known so long?" In which Geoff fully agreed; and it was not till many years later that he knew how it had really been—how Mr. Byrne had planned all for his safety and good, with the help of one of the cleverest young detectives in the London police, "Ned Jowett," the innocent countryman whom Geoff had patronized!

The boy told all he had been thinking of doing, his idea of emigrating, his wish to be "independent," and gain his own livelihood. And his mother explained to him what she herself had not thoroughly known till lately—that for many years, ever since her husband's death, they had owed far more to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot than they had had any idea of.

"Your father was the son of his dearest friend," she said. "Mr. Byrne has no relations of his own. We were left very poor, but he never let me know it. The lawyers by mistake wrote to me about the loss of money, which uncle had for long known was as good as lost, so that in reality it made little difference. So you see, Geoff, what we owe him—everything—and you must be guided by his wishes entirely."

They were kind and good wishes. He did not want Geoff to emigrate, but he sympathized in his love for the country. For two or three years Geoff was sent to a first-rate school, where he got on well, and then to an agricultural college, where he also did so well that before he was twenty he was able to be the squire's right hand in the management of his large property, and in this way was able to feel that, without sacrificing his independence, he could practically show his gratitude. They say that some part of the estate will certainly be left to Geoff at Mr. Byrne's death; but that, it is to be hoped, will not come to pass for many years yet, for the old gentleman is still very vigorous, and the Hall would certainly not seem itself at all if one did not hear his "Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" sounding here, there, and everywhere, as he trots busily about.



PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

THE END