"Is that scum the elutriation?" said Tom, with a faint grin.

"No, boy, the impurity; throw it down the sink. Now, Tom, we want to get our finest polishing emery out of that mixture, and it will take an hour to form—sixty-minute emery, the opticians call it; so while it is preparing, we'll go and have another turn at the speculum."

They descended, leaving the pan standing on the heavy table, and after spreading wet sand upon the lower disc of glass, the loose one was once more set in motion, and uncle and nephew, with quarter-hour rests for examination and wetting the surfaces, patiently ground away for an hour, by which time, upon the speculum being sponged, it was found that the greater part of the upper glass was deeply scratched.

"This is going to be an awfully long job," thought Tom.

"Yes, it is," said his uncle, who aptly read his thoughts, "a very long job, Tom; but good things have to be worked for, boy."

"Oh, I'm not going to be tired, uncle. It's like working for a grand prize."

"It is. Now then, let's see to the emery. Our finest must be ready by now. Now I want all the water, from which the emery has settled down to the bottom, drawn off into that great white basin. How is it to be done?"

"Pour it off," said Tom.

"No; couldn't be done without disturbing the bottom. Let's try syphoning."

Uncle Richard placed the basin upon a stool below the level of the table, took up a glass tube bent somewhat in the shape of a long-shanked hook, placed the short end gently beneath the surface of the nearly clear water, his lips to the long end, drew out the air, and the water followed directly from the atmospheric pressure, and ran swiftly into the basin.

As it ran, and Tom watched, Uncle Richard carefully held the short arm of the syphon, guiding it till the sediment at the bottom of the pan was nearly reached, when he quickly withdrew it, and the basin was then placed beside the pan.

"There, Tom," said Uncle Richard, "that's our sixty-minute emery."

"But I thought you said you wanted it very fine. You've only washed it."

"We're playing at cross purposes, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "You are talking about the contents of the pan, I about those of the basin."

"What! the clear water—at least nearly clear?"

"Ah, there you have hit it, boy—nearly clear. That water contains our finest polishing powder, and it will have to stand till to-morrow to settle."

"Oh!" said Tom, who felt very much in the dark, and he followed his uncle to the neat sink that had been fitted in the laboratory, and helped him wash a series of wide-mouthed stoppered bottles, which were afterwards carefully dried and labelled in a most methodical way.

"Saves time, Tom, to be careful," said Uncle Richard, who now took up a pen and wrote upon the label of the smallest bottle "Emery, 60 min."

"There, that's for the contents of the big basin."

"Want a genii to get a pailful into that little bottle, uncle," said Tom, laughing.

"We'll get all we want into it to-morrow, Tom," was the reply. "Now then, how do you feel—ready for one hour's more grinding at the speculum, or shall we leave it till to-morrow?"

"I want to finish it, and see the moon," said Tom sturdily, as he rolled up his sleeves a little more tightly. "Let's get on, uncle, and finish it."

"Or get an hour nearer," said Uncle Richard; and they went down and ground till Mrs Fidler summoned them to their meal.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

The next morning came a letter from Mornington Crescent, announcing that James Brandon had met with an accident, and been knocked down by a cab. The letter was written by Sam, evidently at his father's dictation, and on the fly-leaf was a postscript self-evidently not at James Brandon's dictation, for it was as follows—

"P.S.—Dear Uncle, there isn't much the matter, only a few bruises, only the pater makes such a fuss. Thought you'd like to know."

"Charming youth, your cousin," said Uncle Richard, as he rose and went into his little study to answer the letter, leaving Tom at liberty for a few minutes, which he utilised by going down the garden to where David was busy.

"Morning, sir. How's the machine getting on?"

"Capitally, David."

"That's right, sir. I hope you and the master 'll make some'at out of it, for people do go on dreadful about it down the village."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, sir, of course it's their higgorance. You and me knows better, and I shouldn't like master to know, but they lead me a horful life about it all. They say master's got a crack in his head about that thing he's making, and that he ought to be stopped."

"Why?" said Tom, laughing.

"Oh, it's nothing to laugh about, sir. They say the place won't be safe, for he'll be having a blow-up one of these days with his contrapshums."

"What nonsense!"

"Well, sir, I don't know about that. He did have one, and singed all his hair off, and blew out his libery window."

"Tom!"

"Coming, uncle."

"Don't you say a word to him, sir, please."

"Oh, no; all right, David; and next time the people say anything to you about uncle's experiments, you tell them they're a pack of bull-geese!"

"Bull-geese!" said David, turning the word over two or three times as if he liked it, "bull-geese! Yes, sir, I will," and he began to chuckle, while Tom joined his uncle, who was already on his way to the mill.

As Tom reached the lane he was just in time to meet Pete Warboys, who came slouching along with his hands as far down in his pockets as he could reach, his boots, two sizes too large, unlaced, and his dog close behind him.

Pete's body went forward as if all together, but his eyes were on the move the while, searching in every direction as if for prey, and settled upon Tom with a peculiarly vindictive stare, while the dog left his master's side, and began to sniff at Tom's legs.

"Not afraid of you now," thought the boy, as he remembered the fir-cones, and felt sure that a stone would send the dog flying at any time. But as he met Pete's eye he did not feel half so sure. For Pete was big-boned and strong, and promised to be an ugly customer in a battle.

"And besides, he's so dirty," thought Tom, as he passed on to the gate, through which his uncle had just passed.

Pete said nothing until Tom had closed the gate. Then there was the appearance of a pair of dirty hands over the coping of the wall, the scraping noise made by a pair of boot toes against the bricks, and next Pete's head appeared just above the wall, and he uttered the comprehensive word expressive of his contempt, defiance, and general disposition to regard the boy from London as an enemy whose head he felt disposed to punch. Pete's word was—

"Yah!"

Tom felt indignant.

"Get down off that wall, sir!" he cried.

This roused Pete Warboys, who, as the daring outlaw of Furzebrough, desired to play his part manfully, especially so since he was on the other side of the said wall; and, wrinkling up his snub nose, he cried—

"She-arn't! 'Tain't your wall."

"Get down!" cried Tom fiercely.

"Get down yerself. Who are you, I should like to know?"

Tom stooped and picked up a clod of earth, and Pete ducked his head, the motion causing his toes to slip out of a crevice between two bricks, and he disappeared, but only to scramble up again.

"You heave that at me," he cried fiercely, "and I'll come over and smash yer."

Tom felt disposed to risk the smashing, and drew back his hand to throw the clod, when his wrist was caught, for his uncle had heard what passed, and returned to the door.

"Don't do that, my boy," he said quietly. Then to Pete, "Get down off that wall."

"She-arn't! Who are you?" cried the great hulking fellow, and he scrambled a little more upward, so as to hang over with his elbows on the top bricks.

"Then stop there," said Uncle Richard quietly. "Don't take any notice of him, Tom; the fellow is half an idiot."

"So are you!" yelled Pete. "Yah! Who pulled the—"

Whack!

"Ow! ah!" A scramble, and Pete disappeared as an angry voice was heard on the other side of the wall.

"How dare you, sir? Insolent young scoundrel! Be off with you!"

"Don't you hit me!" came in a yelping, snivelling tone. "Don't you hit me! You hit me, and I'll—Get out!"

There was a dull thud, a yell, and the succession of cries uttered by a dog in pain, generally known as "chy-ike." For, unable to vent his spleen upon his aggressor, Pete had turned upon his wretched dog, which was unfortunate enough to get between his master's legs, nearly sending him down as he backed away from a quivering malacca cane. The dog received an awful kick, and ran down the narrow lane, and Pete followed him in a loose-jointed, shambling trot, turned into the pathway between the hedges at the bottom of Uncle Richard's field, thrust his head back, relieved his feelings by yelling out "Yah!" and disappeared.

By this time Tom and his uncle were down at the yard gate, which they threw open, to find themselves face to face with the vicar, a little fresh-coloured, plump, grey man of five-and-forty. His brow was wrinkled with annoyance, and his grey hair and whiskers seemed to bristle, as he changed the stout cane into his left hand, pulled off his right glove, and shook hands.

"Good-morning," he cried; "good-morning—nephew, arn't you? Glad to know you. Only came back last night, Brandon, and the first thing I encounter in my first walk is that young scoundrel insulting you."

"Oh, it's nothing," said Uncle Richard, smiling.

"But it is something, my dear sir. After all the pains I took with that boy at our school—when I could get him there—he turns out like this. Really," he continued, laughing very good-humouredly, and looking down at his cane, "I ought not to have done it,—not becoming in a clergyman,—but the young dog was insulting you, and he was stretched over the wall so tightly. Really—ha, ha!—it was so tempting that I felt obliged."

"Yes, it must have been tempting," said Uncle Richard. "Well, have you come back quite strong?"

"Seems like it," said the vicar, laughing. Then seriously, "Yes, thank heaven, I feel quite myself again."

"That's good," said Uncle Richard. "I am very glad."

"I know you are. And oh, Brandon, you can't think how glad I am to get back to the dear old place again. My garden looks delightful; and yours?"

"Capital."

"But, my dear fellow, what in the world are you doing with the old mill. I heard you had bought it. Sails gone, mended, painted. Why, surely— yes—no—yes, I have it—observatory."

"Right."

"Splendid idea. Capital. You ought to have a big telescope for that."

"Making it," said Uncle Richard laconically.

"Glad of it. Wish I could join you. There, good-bye, so much to do; can't tell me, I suppose, what to do with that lad Pete Warboys?"

Uncle Richard shook his head, and the vicar shook his hand. Then as he went through the same process with Tom, he said—

"Glad to know you; I'm sure we shall be very good friends;" and then he hurried away, and the others closed the gate and went into the workshop, where the speculum was waiting to be ground.

"You'll like Mr Maxted," said Uncle Richard quietly. "A thorough, true-hearted gentleman, who preserves all the best of his boyhood; but come now, work."

"Grinding?" said Tom, stripping off his jacket.

"Not yet—elutriation, Tom," said Uncle Richard, as he led the way up to the laboratory, where the big pan was lifted down upon the stool, and the syphon used to pour the water in the white basin back again.

But not quite all. It was clear now, and at the bottom there was just a film of chocolate mud, which was most carefully trickled off with some of the water into the ready labelled little bottle.

"There, Tom, that tiny spoonful or two of paste is our finest emery, and valuable in the extreme—to us. The next thing is to get a grade coarser."

"The same way?" said Tom.

"Nearly. Stir the whole up again."

This was carefully done, but there was no scum now.

"We left the other sixty minutes, Tom," said Uncle Richard; "this time we'll leave it thirty minutes. Come along; time for two quarter-hour grinds at the speculum."

They went down, wetted the sand, and ground away for fifteen minutes; washed the glass, started again, and at the end of another fifteen minutes went up to repeat the process of drawing off the thick water into the basin. This was left to stand till evening, when the water was poured back, and about a double quantity of thin paste to that obtained in the morning placed in a size larger bottle, and labelled "thirty-minute emery."

Again the whole was well stirred, and left for fifteen minutes; the process repeated, and a much larger quantity obtained and bottled.

The next day the emery was stirred, and allowed to settle for five minutes; then for two minutes, and the remainder bottled by itself, this being by far the largest quantity, and in fact so much strong sharp grit.

"There!" cried Uncle Richard; "now, going backwards, we have six different grades of material, beginning with the coarse, and going up to the fine sixty-minute powder or paste for polishing, for these things have to be made exquisitely fine."

At the next attack upon the glass to dig it out into a hollow, the sand was all carefully washed away, showing the disc to be thoroughly scratched all over, and looking somewhat like the inside of a ground-glass globe.

"So far so good, Tom," said Uncle Richard; "now let's try our mould."

He took down the convex-shaped piece of zinc, and placed it upon the newly-ground-glass, into whose face it descended a little way, but only a very little.

"Not deep enough yet, Tom," he said; "the mould ought to fit into it exactly."

"Yes, I understand now," said Tom; "we have got to grind more out of the middle."

"Exactly."

"Shall I fetch the sand back?"

"No, we will use the coarsest emery now; I dare say that will dig out enough. Now then, number one."

The large-stoppered bottle was fetched from its shelf, and a small portion of the most coarse ground emery taken out with a spatula, spread upon the fixed glass, the speculum carefully laid upon it, and turned a little to spread the material more equally, a few drops of water having been added, and the slow, tedious grinding went on again.

"Hard work, my boy," said Uncle Richard, as they paused at last from their laborious work, the disc they moved to and fro and round and round, as they slowly changed their positions, being exceedingly heavy.

But Tom, as soon as he got his breath, was too much interested to mind the labour, and after helping to lift one disc from the other, he looked on eagerly at his uncle's busy fingers, as he carefully sponged and cleaned both glasses.

"See how the coarse emery we began with has become ground down."

"Yes, into a slime," said Tom.

"Partly glass," said Uncle Richard, as he drew attention now to the face of the speculum, which was scratched more deeply already, and displayed a different grain.

Fresh emery out of the bottle was applied, moistened a little more, and the grinding went on for a while. Then there was a fresh washing, more of the coarse emery applied, and so the task went on hour after hour that day and the next, when in the afternoon when the zinc mould was applied to the surface it fitted in almost exactly, and Tom gave a cheer.

"Yes, that will do," said Uncle Richard, whose face glowed with the exertion.

"What next then?" said Tom eagerly.

"The next grade of emery, boy," was the reply; "our task is of course now not to grind the speculum deeply, but to grind out all these scratches till it is as limpid as the surface of pure water."

"Don't look possible," said Tom. "Well, we will try."

The next morning they worked for an hour before breakfast in precisely the same way, gave a couple of hours to the task after breakfast, two more in the afternoon, and one in the evening—"a regular muscle-softener," Uncle Richard called it; but when for the last time the finely-ground emery number two was washed off, and the speculum examined, its surface looked much better, the rougher scratchings having disappeared.

Tom was all eagerness to begin the next day, when the number three emery was tried in precisely the same way. Then came work with the number four, very little of which was used at a time; and when this was put aside for number five, Tom again cheered, for the concave surface had become beautifully fine.

"Two more workings, and then the finishing," said Uncle Richard. "Think we shall polish out all the scratchings?"

"Why, they are gone now," cried Tom.

"Yes, it shows what patience will do," said Uncle Richard; "a man can't lift a house all at once, but he could do it a brick at a time."

The speculum was carefully placed aside after its cleansing, and the pair of amateur opticians locked up the place after hanging up their aprons.

"Wouldn't do to break that now, Tom, my boy."

"Break it?" cried the boy; "oh, it would be horrible. Why, we should have to make another, and go through all that again."

"Yes, Tom, but we could do it. I know of a gentleman who made a hundred of these specula with his own hands. But there will be something more interesting for you to see to-morrow."

"What, shall we get it done?"

"By no means; but first thing of all I must test it, and to do this easily, we must be up early when the sun is shining in at the east window of our workshop. Do you think you can call me by five?"

"I'm sure of it, uncle," cried Tom.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Tom kept his word, for he started into wakefulness in the grey dawn out of an uncomfortable dream, in which he had seen the unfinished speculum fall off the bench on to the stone-floor, roll like a wheel out of the door, down the slope to the gate, bound over, and then go spinning down the lane and across the green, straight for the ragstone churchyard wall, where it was shivered to pieces.

"Only a dream," he said, as he leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and saw by the church clock that it was only half-past four.

"Time to go over and see if it is all right," he said, as he finished dressing, "and then come back and call uncle."

Going down-stairs, he took the keys of the mill from where they hung by the front door, went out into the garden, unlocked the gate, and went across to the mill, where, on peering through the window, he could see the glass lying just as it had been left.

"That's all right," said Tom; and he walked round by the back of the tower to see how the flowers and shrubs looked, when, to his startled surprise, he found footprints made by a heavy, clumsy pair of boots on the border beneath the wall.

Their meaning was plain enough. Some one had walked along there, and got out of the yard over the wall, while, upon a little further search, he found the spot where whoever it was had entered the yard by jumping down, the prints of two heels being deeply-marked in the newly-dug earth.

"That must have been Pete," said Tom, flushing; and he looked over the wall, half expecting to see the slouching figure of the lad.

But there was no one within sight, and he looked round the yard in search of the visitor's object. There was nothing but the old millstones stealable, and they stood here and there where they had been leaned against tower and wall; and at ten minutes to five, after noting that the sun was shining brightly, Sam went back to his uncle and called him, and at half-past five they went together to the mill-yard, where the footprints were pointed out.

"Have to keep the door carefully locked, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "Hah! capital! the sun will be shining right through that window in a few minutes."

They entered the workshop, where a bench was drawn opposite to the last window, and about twelve feet away. To this, with Tom's help, the partly-polished speculum was borne.

"Not very bright for a reflector, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "What am I to do to make it brighter?"

"Go on polishing, uncle."

"Ah, but I want to test it this morning, to see if we have a good curve," said Tom's elder, smiling. "Fill the sponge with clean water and bring it here."

This was done, and the finely-ground surface was freely wetted, with the effect that it became far more luminous directly.

"Now, Tom," said his uncle, "I'm going to show you something in reflection. The sun is not quite high enough for the speculum, so give me that piece of looking-glass."

This was handed to him, and he held it on high, so that the low-down sun shone into it, and a reflection was cast from it back upon the wall just above the window.

"See that?"

"Yes, uncle. Done that many a time. Used to call it making jack-o'-lanterns."

"Well, that is the effect of a reflection from a flat or plane surface; the rays of light strike back at the same angle as they hit the surface. Now then, I'll show you what happens from a curved surface."

He passed the sponge rapidly over the ground speculum again, so as to glaze it—so to speak—with water, raised it upon its edge with the carefully-ground face directed at the window just as the sun rose high enough to shine in; and then by turning the great mirror slightly, the light reflected from it struck upon the wall at the side of the window.

"Now, Tom, what do you see?"

"A round spot of light about as big as a two-shilling piece," said the boy.

"Yes; all the rays of light which fall upon our mirror, gradually drawn together to where they form an image of the sun. It is only dull, my boy, but so far finely perfect, and we can say that we have gone on very successfully."

As he spoke he laid the mirror down upon its back.

"Is that all you are going to do?" asked Tom.

"Yes; I can test it no better till it is more advanced, my boy. It may seem a little thing to you, but it is enough to show me that we may go on, and not begin our work all over again. Now for a good turn until breakfast-time. Two good hours' work ought to produce some effect."

The lower disc, now become convex, was wetted and lightly touched over with number five emery, which seemed soft enough for anything; the well-advanced mirror was turned over upon it, fitting now very closely, and with the sweet morning air floating in from the pine-woods, and the birds singing all around, the monotonous task went on with its intermissions till Uncle Richard gave the final wash off, and said—"Breakfast!"

They were so far advanced now that Tom was as eager to recommence as his uncle, and by that evening so much progress had been made that the setting sun was made to shine in upon it, to be reflected back in a bright spot on the wall without the aid of water; while two evenings later, when the great round glass was stood all dry the polish upon it was limpid, and seemed to be as pure as could be. There was not the faintest scratch visible, and Tom cried in triumph—

"There, now it is done! Oh, uncle, it is grand!"

"Grand enough so far, my boy. We have succeeded almost beyond my expectations; but that is only the first stage."

"First—stage?" faltered Tom, looking at his uncle aghast.

"Yes, boy; we have succeeded in making a beautiful spherical concave mirror, which could be of no use whatever for my purpose."

"Then why did we make it?" cried Tom. "For practice?"

"No, boy; because it is the step towards making an ellipse, or, as they call it when shaped for a reflecting telescope, a parabola. You know what an ellipse is?"

"Gooseberry," said Tom bluntly.

"Gooseberry-shaped," said his uncle. "Well then, what is a parabola?"

"One of those things we used to learn about in geometry."

"Good. Well, to-morrow we must begin polishing, or rather I must, to turn our glass from a spherical-curved mirror into a parabola."

"You'll let me help, uncle?"

"As much as I can, my boy; but the amount I have to polish off, in what is called figuring, is so small that it requires the most delicate of treatment, and first of all we have to prepare a small polisher to work by hand."

This was formed of lead in the course of the next day—a nearly flat but slightly convex disc, with a handle upon its back, and when made perfectly smooth it was covered with hot pitch, which, as it cooled, was made to take the exact curve of the nearly finished mirror, by being pressed upon it, the pitch yielding sufficiently for the purpose.

This done the pitch was scored across and across, till it was divided into squares, with little channels between them, so that the polishing powder and water might run freely between; then a final pressure was given upon the mirror and the implement was left to harden till the next day.

"Now for a few hours' polishing," said Uncle Richard the next morning, as he took up the curved pitch tool and moistened it, no longer with emery, but with fine moistened rouge; "and if I am successful in slightly graduating off the sides here, and flattening them in an infinitesimal degree, we shall have a good reflector for our future work."

But upon testing it the result that evening was not considered satisfactory. There were several zones to be corrected.

It was the same the next day, and the next. But on the fourth Uncle Richard cried "Hold: enough! I think that is as good as an amateur can make a speculum, and we'll be content."

That night Tom slept so soundly that he did not dream till morning, and then it was of the sun resenting being looked at, and burning his cheek, which possessed some fact, for the blind was a little drawn on one side, and the bright rays were full upon his face.

"All that time spent in making the reflector!" thought Tom; "and all that work. I wonder what the next bit will be."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"Now, uncle, what's the next thing to be done?" said Tom at breakfast that morning.

"I think we may begin the body of the telescope now, Tom," said his uncle.

"The body?"

"Yes; the speculum is what we might call the life of the whole instrument, and the rest will be simplicity itself. We've got to bring a little mechanical work to bear, and the thing is done."

"But it will want a lot of glasses fixed about in a big tube, won't it?"

"No; nothing but the flat and eye-pieces, and I have the lenses to make these. By the way, I have some letters to write, and shall be busy all the morning. Your uncle seems to be still unwell, and I must write to him, for one thing. I tell you what I want done. We have no place there for keeping papers or drawings in, and where one can sit down and write at times, and lock up afterwards. I've been thinking that I'll have the big old bureau desk with its drawers taken out of the study, and carried up into the laboratory. It can stand beneath the shelves on the right of the east window; and you might take up a chair or two, and a piece of old carpet as well. Get David to help you."

"All right, uncle."

So when breakfast was over, Tom went out and found David, who was sticking stakes along the outside of the asparagus bed, and tying tarred twine from one to the other, so as to keep the plume-like stems from blowing about and breaking.

"Mornin', Master Tom," he said. "I say, my Maria Louisas are swelling out fast. We shall soon have to be on the look-out for pear-ketchers."

"All right, David, I'll help you. I hope it is Pete Warboys. I should like to give him stick."

"We'll give him stake instead, Master Tom."

"Never mind that now. I want you to help me move that chest of drawers and desk out of uncle's study to the laboratory."

"Very good, sir; but you might call a spade a spade."

"What do you mean?" said Tom, staring.

"Labor hatory, sir! why don't you say windmill?"

"Because it has been made into an observatory, laboratory, and workshop all in one," said Tom, rather stiffly.

"Just as you like, Master Tom; but you may take the sails off, and the fan, and put all the rattle-traps in it you like, but it can't make it anything but what it was born to be, and that was a windmill."

"Well, we won't argue," said Tom. "Come along."

He led the way to the study, where Uncle Richard was seated at a table writing, and it being a particularly dry day, David spent about five minutes wiping nothing off his shoes on every mat he passed, to Tom's great amusement. Then after making a bow and a scrape to his master which were not seen, he gave his nose a rub with his cuff, and went back to put his hat outside the door.

"Come along, David," said Tom. "This is it."

The gardener went on tiptoe to the end of the old escritoire, stooped, lifted it, and shook his head.

"You can't manage one end o' that, Master Tom," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"No, too weighty," said his master; and without looking round he passed his keys. "Take out the drawers, they're heavy, and carry them separately."

This plan was followed out, each taking a drawer and carrying it out through the garden, and across the lane to the yard gate, which Tom unlocked after resting his drawer on the wall; leaving it there while he ran up and unlocked the tower door, then going back for the load he had left.

These two drawers were carried into the stone-floored workshop, where the bench under the window was covered with an old blanket, another doing duty as cover for the glass tool which had been replaced on the head of the cask.

"My word! what a differ there is here," said David, as he glanced round with the drawer in his hands. "What yer put to bed under they blankets, sir?"

"Specula, David."

"Speckle-hay? What, are you forcing on 'em?"

"Forcing?" said Tom, laughing.

"Yes; are they coming up?"

"Nonsense! Here are those two great pieces of glass uncle brought down. We've been polishing one."

"Oh! them," cried David. "My word! Wonder what old miller would ha' said to see his place ramfoozled about like this?"

"Come along," cried Tom; and the drawers were carried up, each being crammed full of papers and books, and laid on the floor close to the old mill-post.

"Worser and worser," said David, looking round. "Dear, dear! the times I've been up here when the sacks was standing all about, some flour and some wheat, and the stones spinning round, the hopper going tippenny tap—tippenny tap, and the meal-dust so thick you could hardly breathe. I 'member coming out one night, and going home, and my missus says to me, 'Why, Davy, old man, what yer been a-doing on? Yer head's all powdered up like Squire Winkum's footman.' It was only meal, yer know."

"And now you can come and go without getting white, David," said Tom, moving a stool from under the newly put up shelves. "This is where the bureau is to go."

"Is it now?" said David, scratching his head. "Why that's where the old bin used to be. Ay, I've set on that bin many's the time on a windy night, when miller wanted to get a lot o' grist done."

"Back again," said Tom; and two more drawers were carried over. Then the framework and desk were fetched, with Mrs Fidler standing ready, dustpan and brush in hand, to remove any dirt and fluff that might be underneath.

"Tidy heavy now, Master Tom," said David, as they bore the old walnut-wood piece of furniture across the garden and up to the mill, only setting it down once just inside the yard by way of a rest, and to close the gate.

Then the piece of furniture was carried in, and after some little scheming, hoisted up the steep ladder flight of steps, David getting under it and forcing it up with his head.

"Wonderful heavy bit o' wood, Master Tom," said the gardener.

"It's an awkward place to get it up, David," replied the boy. "Now then, just under those shelves. It will stand capitally there, and get plenty of light for writing."

But the bureau did not stand capitally there, for the back feet were higher than the front, consequent upon the floor having sunk from the weight of millstones in the middle.

"She'll want a couple o' wedges under her, Master Tom," said David.

"Yes. I've got a couple of pieces that will just do—part of a little box," cried Tom. "I'll fetch them, and the saw to cut the exact size. You wait here."

"And put the drawers in, sir?"

"Not till we've got this right," replied Tom, who was already at the head of the steps; and he ran down and across to the house, obtained the saw from the tool-chest, and hurried back to the mill, where he found David down in the workshop, waiting for him with his hands in his pockets.

"Didn't yer uncle ought to leave his tool-chest over here, sir?" said the gardener.

"Oh yes, I suppose he will," said Tom. "It would be handier. Halloo, did you open that window?"

"No, sir. I see it ajar like when we first came, and it just blowed open like when the door was swung back."

Tom said no more, but led the way up-stairs, where the pieces of wood were wedged in under the front legs, sawn off square, and the drawers were replaced.

"Capital, Master Tom," cried the gardener. "You'd make quite a carpenter. I say, what's it like up-stairs?"

"Come and see," said Tom, ready to idle a little now the work was done, and very proud of the place he had helped to contrive.

David tightened his blue serge apron roll about his waist, and followed up into the observatory, smiling, but ready to depreciate everything.

"Ay, but it's a big change," he said; "no sacks o' wheat, no reg'lar machinery. There's the master's tallow scoop; he give me a look through it once, and there was the moon all covered with spots o' grease like you see on soup sometimes. Well, it's his'n, and he's a right to do what he likes with the place. Ah, many's the time I've been up here too. Why, Jose the carpenter chap's cut away the top of the post here. You used to be able to move a bit of an iron contrapshum, and that would send the fan spinning, and the whole top would work round till the sails faced the wind."

"Well, the whole top will work round now, David."

"Not it, sir, without the sails."

"But I tell you it will," said Tom, moving a bar, and throwing open the long shutter, which fell back easily, letting in a long strip of sunshine, and giving a view of the blue sky from low-down toward the horizon to the zenith.

"Well, you do get plenty of ventilation," said David oracularly. "Nothing like plenty of air for plants, and it's good for humans too. Make you grow strong and stocky, Master Tom. But the top used to turn all round in the old days."

"So it does now, so that uncle can direct his telescope any way. Look here!"

The boy moved to the side, and took hold of an endless rope, run round a wheel fixed to the side, pulled at the rope, and the wheel began to revolve, turning with it a small cogged barrel, which acted in turn upon the row of cogs belonging to the bottom of the woodwork dome, which began to move steadily round.

"Well, that caps me," said David. "I thought it was a fixter now."

"And you thought wrong, Davy," said Tom, going up two or three steps, and passing out through the open shutter, and lowering himself into the little gallery that had once communicated with the fan, and here he stood looking out.

"All right there, Master Tom?"

"Yes."

"May I move the thing?"

"If you like."

David, as eagerly as a child with a new toy, began to pull at the rope, when the top began to revolve, taking the little gallery with it, and giving Tom a ride pretty well round the place before the gardener stopped, and turned his face through the opening left by the shutter.

"Goes splendid!" he said, as Tom came in and closed the shutter. "I wouldn't ha' believed it. And so the master's going to build a big tallow scoop up there, is he?"

"Yes; and we've got a good deal of it done. There, let's get down. Uncle may want me."

"Ay, and I must get back to my garden, sir. There's a deal to do there, and I could manage with a lot of help."

"Uncle was talking of making this place quite a study, and putting a lot of books here, the other day," said Tom, as they descended to the laboratory.

"Was he now? Rare windy place, though, sir, isn't it? Windy milly place, eh?"

"Well, you said air was good," said Tom, laughing; and they went down into the workshop. "Mustn't have that window left open though," said Tom; and, going to the side, he reached over the bench with the blanket spread over it, drew in the iron-framed lattice window, and fastened it, and was drawing back, when the blanket, which had been hanging draped over a good deal at one end, yielded to that end's weight, and glided off, to fall in a heap upon the stones.

Tom stooped quickly to pick it up, but as his head was descending below the level of the great bench-table, he stopped short, staring at its bare level surface, rose up, turned, and looked sharply at the gardener, and then in quite an excited way stepped to where the upturned cask stood covered with its blanket, and raised it as if expecting to find something there.

But the glass disc his uncle spoke of as a tool lay there only; and with a horrible feeling of dread beginning to oppress him, Tom turned back to the heap of blanket lying upon the floor, stooped over it, but feared to remove it—to lift it up from the worn flagstones.

"Anything the matter, sir?" said David, looking at him curiously from the door.

"Matter? Yes!" cried Tom, who was beginning to feel a peculiar tremor. "David, you—you opened that window."

"Nay, sir, I never touched it," said the gardener stoutly.

"Yes; while I was gone for the saw and wedges."

"Nay, sir, I come down and just looked about, that's all; I never touched the window."

"But—but there was the beautiful, carefully-ground speculum there on that bench, just as uncle and I had finished it. We left it covered over last night—with the blanket—and—and—" he added in a tone of despair, "it isn't there now."

"Well, I never touched it, sir," said the gardener; "you may search my pockets if you like."

Tom could not see the absurdity of the man's suggestion, and in his agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not daring to touch it.

"It's broken," he moaned to himself; "I know it is!" and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead.

"I shouldn't ha' persoomed to touch none o' master's contrapshums, sir," broke in the gardener, rather sharply, "so don't you go and tell him as I did. I know how partickler he always is."

"Broken—broken!" murmured Tom. "The poor speculum—and after all that work."

Then slowly taking the fold of the blanket in his hand he raised it up, and drew it on one side, faintly hoping that he might be wrong, but hoping against hope, for the next moment he had unveiled it where it lay, to see his worst fears confirmed—the beautiful limpid-looking object lay upon the flag at the end, broken in three pieces, one of which reflected the boy's agitated face.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"Oh, David!" cried Tom at last, "how could you touch?"

There was so much agony of spirit in the boy's tones that the gardener felt moved, and remained for a few moments silent. Then rousing himself—

"I didn't, Master Tom; I never touched it. Go and swear I didn't 'fore all the judges in the land."

"Don't tell a lie to hide it," said Tom bitterly.

"Lie! me tell a lie! S'elp me, Master Tom, it's as true as true."

"But you reached over to open the window, and knocked it off, David."

"Swear as I never went a-nigh the window, sir. Don't you go and say it was me when it was you."

"I?" cried Tom, flushing.

"Well, sir, you say it was me, and I see you reach out, and the blanket all falled down—now didn't I, sir?"

"Yes; the blanket went down, but the speculum was not in it, or we should have heard it fall."

"Not if it was all wrapped up in that there blanket, sir."

"I tell you we should," cried Tom, in his angry despair. "You don't know how heavy it was. What shall I do? What will uncle say?"

"Well, sir, if you put it like that, and own to it fair, I should say as he'll kick up the jolliest row he ever made since I broke the whole of the greenhouse light by making it slip right off, and letting it go smash. And then I'd gone straight to him and told him, as I should advise you to do, sir, at once. Master don't like to find things out."

"But I did not break it," cried Tom.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, sir. It was an accident, of course; but I'd go straight to him and tell him."

"David!" cried Tom fiercely, "you're a miserable, cowardly wretch! I did not break it, and you know it. How can I go and take all the blame?"

"Well, sir, how can I, as am as innocent as one o' my best blooms?" cried David. "Well, in all my born days, I never did."

"Why don't you speak out and own to it, sir?" said Tom indignantly. "It's horrible enough after the way we've worked at that speculum to have it broken; but you make it ten times worse by denying it."

"I'd say I did it, sir, in a minute," replied David indignantly; "but it goes hard to see a young gent like you, master's own nevvy, ready to try and bring the whole business down on a poor working-man's head, and so I tell you to your face. If any one's cowardly, it arn't me, and I'm ready to come across to master and tell him so. I'm ashamed of you, sir, that I am. I thought you was a real gentleman, and was beginning to like you; but it's all over between us, sir, for you arn't the sort of lad I thought you. Me break it? You know I never did. Why, I've never been in the place since you and master have been in here busy. Shame on you, Master Tom! Go and tell your uncle, like you ought. It's an accident; but don't you go and make it worse," and with these words David stumped out of the lower part of the old mill, and made his way back to his garden, leaving Tom hot with indignation against him, and half choking with a feeling of misery.

"And uncle has got to know," he said half aloud; "uncle has got to know."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

The speculum that was never to reflect the bright face of the moon was easily moved now, and Tom stooped down and picked up one by one the three triangular pieces, and laid them upon the bench, to find then that a good-sized elliptical piece, something in shape like a fresh-water mussel-shell, yet remained upon the stones. This he raised, and found that it fitted in at the edge beneath.

There was nothing to be gained in what he did, but Tom stood there carefully fitting the fractures together, and spending a great deal of time over the task, while the mirror reflected his sorrowful face as he bent over it. And as he ran his fingers along the three lines of union, the boy's thoughts went back to the scene that evening at Mornington Crescent, when the big china vase was dragged down, to break to shivers in the hall.

"And Sam said I broke that, just as David says I broke this, and all to escape blame. I don't want to tell uncle that David broke it, but I must; I'm not going to take the blame myself, for it would be cowardly as well as lying. But it is so hard. He will be so angry."

So Tom communed as he pieced the fragments of the mirror together, ending by getting the sponge, rinsing it well, and carefully removing a few smears and finger-marks, before taking a clean cloth and wiping it quite dry.

"That's no good," he said bitterly. "I'm only doing it so as to keep from going and telling uncle, and I must tell him—I must tell him, and the sooner the better."

But still he did not stir. He picked up the blanket, and folded that up neatly, to lay it beside the speculum, and then looked round for something else to do.

This he found in the window, which he opened and shut two or three times over, before drawing away from it, with a sigh, and going to the door to look across at the house, where his uncle would be writing.

"I ought to go and tell him, but it is so hard to do. Suppose he thinks it is my work—suppose David goes and accuses me of having broken it to escape himself."

Tom stood aghast at the idea, and was for rushing across at once, but something seemed to hold him back, and a good half-hour passed before he fully strung himself up to go.

Then, closing and locking the door, he did the same by the gate; and now, pale and firm enough, he hung up the keys, and then went straight to the study door, paused for a few moments to think what to say first, and then walked straight in.

"Uncle, I've come to give you very bad news," he said in a husky voice, and then he stopped short.

There was no one in the room, and on going out into the hall, he found that his uncle's hat and stick were missing, and consequently he must have gone down the village to post his letters, and perhaps drop in at the Vicarage on his return.

"Oh, how tiresome!" thought Tom; "just too when I felt I could tell him. Now I must begin all over again."

It was not until nearly two o'clock that Uncle Richard returned, looking very serious; and as they went into the little dining-room alone, Mrs Fidler having stopped back to give some orders respecting the dinner, Tom screwed himself up to make the announcement, which would have come easily enough if it had not been for David's charge, and a shrinking feeling which it had engendered, that Uncle Richard might fancy the same thing. But at last the boy, in his consciousness of innocence, was ready to speak, and turned to him.

"Uncle," he said quickly, "I want to say something to you about the speculum."

"Not now, my boy; I have something else to think about. Let that rest."

Tom's lips parted, and he drew a deep breath of relief at what seemed to him to be a reprieve. Then Mrs Fidler entered the room, and dinner commenced, with Uncle Richard looking very thoughtful.

It was impossible to say anything before Mrs Fidler, Tom thought, for if he was to be in any way blamed, he determined that it should be when alone. In addition, he felt that he should not like to speak of David's delinquency before the housekeeper.

It was a delicious dinner, but poor Mrs Fidler soon began to look troubled, for her master got on very badly; and Tom, who had felt as if his plate had been filled with bitter sand, so hard was the task of eating, refused a second help!

This was too much for Mrs Fidler, who looked piteously from one to the other, and exclaimed—

"Is there anything the matter with the veal pie, sir?"

"Eh? Matter, Mrs Fidler?" said Uncle Richard. "I hope not. I really don't know. Oh, I see. I have hardly tasted it. The fact is, Mrs Fidler, I am in trouble."

Tom jumped in his chair.

"David has told him," he said to himself, and he felt hot and cold.

"I have heard something this morning which has disturbed me a good deal."

Uncle Richard turned his eyes upon his nephew, who tried to speak, but no words would come.

"Dear, dear me, sir," said the housekeeper. "I am so sorry."

"I know you are," said Uncle Richard. "The fact is, my brother met with an accident some little time ago, and it was thought to be of no consequence, but it seems that it is, and the doctors have ordered that he should at once have change of air. He has written to me this morning to that effect."

"Then he don't know anything about it," said Tom, with a sigh of relief, which gave place to a feeling of annoyance, for he wished now that his uncle did know.

"He asks me to have him here for a few days or weeks, and of course I have written to beg that he will come. I hope our air will set him right again, and that it is not so serious as he thinks."

"Then you'd like me to get a room ready for him at once, sir?" said Mrs Fidler, with alacrity.

"If you please, Mrs F."

"It shall be done, sir. I am so glad—I mean so sorry. I was afraid something was wrong here."

"No, Mrs Fidler, there is nothing wrong here; but I'm afraid, Tom, that the visitor will put a stop to our telescopic work."

Tom seized his opportunity, and blurted out—

"It is stopped, uncle: the speculum is broken in three pieces."

"What!" cried Uncle Richard, turning pale.

"Completely spoiled, uncle."

"How, in the name of all that's unfortunate, did you do that, sir?"

It was Tom's turn to start now, for his uncle had immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was his doing, and his words in answer sounded lame and inconclusive.

"I didn't break it, uncle; I found it on the floor."

"Found it on the floor!" cried Uncle Richard, sarcastically. "It was the cat, I suppose. Was the window left open?"

"I found—"

"There, hold your tongue now," said Uncle Richard. "I have something else to think about. You will have everything ready, Mrs Fidler. I have been so separated from my brother nearly all my life, that I feel I owe him every attention."

"I will attend to it all most carefully."

"He may come down to-morrow, for I have written saying he is most welcome."

"Make yourself quite easy, sir. His room shall be ready. I beg pardon, sir; is his good lady coming with him?"

"No, he is coming down alone. I have told him to telegraph by what train, so that I may go and meet him."

The miserable dinner soon came to an end, and Uncle Richard, instead of chatting pleasantly, never so much as looked at his nephew. But Mrs Fidler did, with her head on one side; and every time Tom caught her eye, which seemed to be nearly every minute, she shook her head at him gently, and gave him such appealing looks, that he felt exasperated at last, and as if he would like to throw something at her.

"She thinks I did it now," he said to himself; and when his uncle left the table and went into his study he had full proof, for Mrs Fidler seized the opportunity, and shaking her head at him again, said in a whisper—

"Oh, Master Tom, my dear, the truth may be blamed, but can never be shamed."

"Well, I know that," cried the boy angrily.

"Hush, my dear! I know it's very hard, but do—do go and tell your uncle the truth, and he'll forgive you."

"I have told him the truth," cried Tom hotly.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, I'm afraid not, or else your face wouldn't be so dreadfully red and guilty-like, and I'm sure as your uncle thinks you broke it."

"Yes," cried Tom; "everybody seems to think so."

"Then pray, pray, my dear, be open."

"Don't, Mrs Fidler, don't," cried Tom pettishly. "I feel as if I can't bear it."

"Now, sir, I'm waiting," said Uncle Richard, suddenly appearing at the open window. "Come over to the observatory at once."

"Yes, uncle; coming," cried Tom.

"And do, pray, pray tell him all the truth, my dear," whispered Mrs Fidler.

"Ugh! you stupid old woman," exclaimed Tom to himself, as he ran out into the hall, got his cap, and followed his uncle, who was walking sharply on toward the mill-yard, with the keys hanging from his hand.

"And he's thinking all the time that I did it," muttered Tom. "He might have waited."

"Pst! pst!" came from among the bushes, and the boy turned sharply, to see David working his arms about like an old-fashioned telegraph.

"Can't stop. What is it?" said Tom roughly.

"I ain't going to stop you, Master Tom; but you go and tell the truth."

"Bah!" cried Tom.

"The truth may be shamed, sir, but can never be blamed," said the gardener oracularly.

"Get out, you topsy-turvy old humbug," cried Tom wrathfully. "Think I don't know you?" and he ran on, and caught up to his uncle as he was passing through the yard gate.

He did not speak, but went on toward the observatory door.

"Shall I open it, uncle?" said Tom eagerly.

"No," was the abrupt reply; and Tom shrank within himself like a snail touched with the end of a walking-stick on a damp night. Then the key was rattled into the lock, the door was thrown open, and Uncle Richard, looking very grave and stern, stalked into the workshop straight to the table, glanced at the speculum, and pushed the pieces apart, frowning angrily.

"I'd sooner have given a hundred pounds than that should have happened," he said.

"Yes, uncle; it's horrid," said Tom.

"How did you do it?" said Uncle Richard, turning sharply, and fixing him with his keen eyes, as he had often fixed some deceitful, shivering coolie, who had looked up to him in the past as master and judge in one.

"I didn't do it," cried Tom passionately. "Everybody misjudges me, and thinks it was I."

"Then how did it happen?"

Tom told him briefly.

"Was that window left open last night?"

"I don't think so, uncle; I'm almost sure I fastened it."

"Almost!" said Uncle Richard, in the same cold, hard way in which he had spoken before. "Then, sir, you accuse David of having meddled and broken it?"

"No, I don't, uncle," said Tom, speaking quite firmly now. "I told you everything."

"Fetch David."

Tom hurried out, and had no difficulty in finding the gardener, who had hardly stirred from where he had left him.

"I knowed the master'd want me. Did you own up, sir, like a man?"

"No, I didn't," said Tom angrily. "Come to uncle directly."

"Then—"

David said no more, but gave his old straw hat a smart rap on the crown, and walked sharply on before Tom, unrolling and shaking out his blue apron, prior to rolling it up again very tightly about his waist. He strode along so rapidly that Tom had hard work to keep up with him; and in spite of his efforts, David strode into the workshop first, pulled off his hat, dashed it down on the floor, and struck one hand loudly with his fist.

"What I say is this here, sir. I've sarved you faithful ever since you come back from the burning Ingies—"

"Silence!"

"And made the garden what it is—"

"Silence!" said Uncle Richard, more sternly.

"And if Master Tom's been telling you a pack o' lies about me—"

"Silence, man!" cried Uncle Richard angrily.

"Why, all I've got to say is—"

"Will you hold your tongue, sir? My nephew has not even accused you. He has merely told me his own version of the accident."

"Oh!" said David, looking from one to the other, thoroughly taken aback.

"Now give me your account, sir," continued Uncle Richard.

David threw in a few pieces of ornamentation about his narrative, but its essence was precisely the same as Tom's.

"Humph!" said Uncle Richard. "It looks as of one of you must be in fault."

"I take my solemn—"

"Silence, sir! you have spoken enough. Tell me this, as the man I have always been a good master to, and have always trusted. I know it is a serious thing, but I want the simple truth. Did you have an accident, and break that glass?"

"I wish I may die this minute if I did, sir," cried David; "and that's an awful thing to say."

"Thank you, David; I believe you," said Uncle Richard quietly, and the gardener's face glowed as he turned his eyes on Tom, and then frowned, and jerked his head, and seemed to say—

"Now out with the truth, my lad, like a man."

Tom was darting back an angry look, when his uncle turned to him, with eyes that seemed to read him through and through.

"I thought it was your doing at first, Tom, in my vexation," he said. "Then I suspected poor David here, very unwillingly. But you see we are at fault."

"Yes, uncle," cried Tom eagerly, for there was something in his uncle's tone, stern as it sounded, that was like a friendly grasp of the hand, and turning towards him, in quite an excited burst, he cried, "Then you don't think I did it?"

"Of course not, my boy. What have you ever done that I should doubt your word?"

Tom could not speak, but he made a snatch at his uncle's hand, to feel it close warmly upon his own.

David looked from one to the other, and then stooped and picked up his hat, put it on, recollected himself, and snatched it off again.

"Well," he said softly, "it's a rum 'un. If I didn't feel quite cock-sure as it was you, Master Tom, that I did. Then it warn't you, arter all! Then who was it? that's what I want to know."

"That's what we all want to know, David," said Uncle Richard, as he laid his hand now upon his nephew's shoulder, the firm pressure seeming to send a thrill of strength and determination through the boy's heart. "One thing is very plain—it could not have broken itself."

"But don't you think, Master Tom, as it might have gone down when you leaned over the wrapper?"

"Impossible," said Uncle Richard quickly. "The glass was far too heavy, as we well know, eh, Tom? Here, let's look out outside."

He led the way through the open door, and round to the window beneath which the speculum had lain upon the bench, and examined the lately made flower-bed, in which various creepers had been planted to run up the wall.

"There's no need to be in doubt," said Uncle Richard, pointing; and Tom uttered an excited cry, for there, deeply-marked beneath the window were the prints of heavy-nailed boots, doubled—by the toes pointing toward the mill, and by the appearance as of some one stepping partly into them again.

"Are those your footmarks, David?" said his master.

"Mine, sir? No. Mine's got tips on the toes. Look."

He lifted one leg across the other, as if he were going to be shod by a blacksmith, showing that his soles would have made a very different impression upon the soft earth.

"Why, sir," continued David with a smile, "I never leaves no footmarks. Natur' meant a man's hands to be used as rakes, or they would not 'a been this shape. I always gives the place a touch over where I've been."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard, nodding. "I have seen you."

"You ayve, sir, many times," said David, bending down; "and these here couldn't have been made by Master Tom, anyhow."

"Lend me your knife, David," said Uncle Richard.

"Knife, sir? Oh, I'll soon smooth them marks out."

"Stop!" cried Uncle Richard, and only just in time, for David's finger-rake was within an inch. "We may want to compare those with somebody's boots."

"Why o' course, sir," said the gardener, handing his knife already opened; when, placing one foot close against the bricks, Uncle Richard leaned across the bed, inserted the blade of the knife beside the iron casement frame, and with it lifted the fastening with the greatest ease.

David gave his leg a heavy slap.

"That was some 'un artful, sir, and he got in."

"Slipped in descending inside, and dragged the speculum on the floor," said Uncle Richard, frowning. "Now the question is, who was it?"

"Ah, who was it, sir?" said David. "Arn't such a great many folk in Furzebrough, and I should say as it lies between Parson Maxted and Pete Warboys, and it warn't parson, 'cause of the boots."

"I don't like to suspect unjustly," said Uncle Richard, "so don't say anything, David. I'll go down to the lad's home with my nephew here, and we'll see if we can find out whether he has been about here since yesterday."

"And you'll have your work cut out, sir," said David; "for that chap goes hawking about more like a ferret than aught else; but if it warn't him, Master Tom, I'll heat my head."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

David went back to his gardening, giving Tom a smile and a nod, and whispering to him as he followed his uncle after locking up the workshop and the yard gate—

"You and me's good friends again, arn't we, Master Tom?"

"Yes, of course, David; and I beg your pardon for ever suspecting you."

"Oh, that's all right, sir. It was six o' one and half-a-dozen o' the other. I thought it was you, and you thought it was me, and—"

"Come, Tom," said Uncle Richard; and the boy hurried forward, and did not hear the end of David's speech.

"Mind we put a secure fastening on those lower windows to-morrow morning," said Uncle Richard thoughtfully. "We ought to be able to live down in a place like this without nocturnal visitors; but there, one never knows."

They walked on pretty sharply till the cottages were reached; and as soon as the visitors came up to the gate the curious-looking old woman appeared at the open door, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering at them as they walked down the path.

"It's of no use to come here," she cried loudly. "Don't want any. No money to buy anything. Go to the rich gentlefolk and sech."

"You old impostor!" said Uncle Richard softly. "You can see who we are plainly enough."

"D'yer hear? Don't want any to-day."

"Now, Mrs Warboys, I want to see your grandson."

"Hey?"

"I say I want to see your grandson."

"What?"

"I want to see your grandson."

"Who are you? Haven't you got anything to sell?"

"You know I have not. You can see well enough when you come for help."

"Hey? Who are you?"

"You know me. I am from Heatherleigh."

"Oh, it's you. I thought you wanted to sell calicoes and flannels. What did you bring your pack for? What's in it? Oh, I see, it arn't a pack at all; it's a boy. What d'yer want?"

"I told you I want to see your grandson."

"What for?"

"I want to ask him a few questions."

"Ah, that's no good. He says he had so many asked him at school that he'll never answer no more."

"Where is he? Call him," said Uncle Richard.

"He arn't at home, and you can't see him."

"How long will he be?"

"I d'know. P'raps he won't come back no more, so you needn't come poking about here."

"When did he go out last?" said Uncle Richard.

"Last week I think, but my mind arn't good now at figgers. Tell me what you want, and if ever I see him again I'll tell him."

"We are wasting time, Tom," said Uncle Richard in a whisper.

"Yes," said the old woman viciously; "you're wasting time. It's no use for you to come here to try and get things to say again my poor boy. I know you and your ways. You want to get him sent away, I know; and you're not going to do it. I know you all—parson and doctor, and you, Brandon, you're all against my poor innocent boy; but you're not going to hurt him, for you've got me to reckon with first."

"Your sight and hearing seem to have come back pretty readily, Mrs Warboys."

"You never mind that," cried the old woman. "I know what I'm saying, and I'm not afraid of any of you."

Just then one of the women from the next cottages came out and curtseyed to them.

"Don't take any notice of what she says, sir. She's a bit put out to-day."

"So it seems," said Uncle Richard. "Let me see, Mrs Deane, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said the woman, smiling.

"You can tell me then where is Pete Warboys?"

The old woman literally shrieked out—

"Let her say a word if she dares. She'd better. She hasn't forgotten what I did to—Ah! look at that."

She uttered the last words triumphantly, for the woman turned and ran hurriedly into her cottage.

"Come along, Tom," said Uncle Richard; "we are doing no good here;" and he turned and led the way down toward the gate, with the old woman shrieking out a torrent of words after them, and playing an accompaniment formed of slaps upon the door till they were out of hearing.

"What a terrible old woman!" said Tom at last. "That Mrs Deane seemed quite frightened of her."

"Yes; the poor ignorant people here believe that she has the power to do them harm; and in spite of all Mr Maxted tells them, he cannot shake their faith."

"What shall you do now, uncle?"

"Nothing, my boy, upon second thoughts. I am afraid we should not be able to prove that this young scoundrel did the mischief without calling in the police, and that I am very loth to do."

"But he ought not to be allowed to go about doing such things as that, uncle," said Tom warmly. "It gets the wrong people suspected."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard dryly; "and perhaps we are suspecting the wrong person now."

"But who else could it be, uncle?"

"Some tramp perhaps, on the way to London. No, Tom, I don't think we will waste our time in trying to bring the misdoing home to Mr Pete Warboys, and then appearing before the magistrates to punish him. We had better set to work and polish a new speculum."

"Then you will make another?" said Tom eagerly.

"Of course, my boy. I shall write off for two fresh discs to-night."

"One will do, uncle."

"No, boy; we must have two, and begin as before. The lower one is useless now, unless I keep it for a polishing tool."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

"Master Tom, I'd be the last person in the world to find fault, or pick people to pieces, and I'm sure master knows that, as it's his brother, I'd do anything; but really, my dear, I don't think he's so bad as he says."

"Do you think not, Mrs Fidler?"

"I feel sure not, my dear. Here has he been down here for three weeks now, and the nursing up he's had is wonderful. You look at the beef-tea he's had, and the calves'-foot jelly I've made, and the port wine he has drunk, let alone the soles and chickens and chops he has every day."

"But what makes you think Uncle James is not so ill?"

"Because he eats and drinks so much, my dear. I think he's all right, only got something on his mind."

"Well, I don't know," said Tom. "He says he's very bad. I must be off now; it's time he went out in his bath-chair."

"Yes, my dear, it's wonderful what your uncle does for him, what with the flys, and pony-carriages, and the invalid chair got down on purpose for him. I only wish I had such a brother as master."

For Uncle James had come down ready to groan when he was helped out of the fly, to sigh when he was helped off to bed, and call out when Tom led him to his chair at meal-times. For as soon as he came down he had attached himself to his nephew, and was never satisfied without the boy was at his side.

"Your noo uncle seems to like you, Master Tom," said David one day.

"Yes; I wish he wouldn't be quite so fond of me," replied Tom. "He used not to be in London."

But Tom's wishes were of no avail, for his uncle would hardly let him quit his side; and when they were indoors he would sit and gaze wistfully at the boy, and now and then whisper—

"Tom, my boy, I think I ought to tell you, that—"

Then he would stop, and, growing impatient at last, Tom broke out with—

"What is it, uncle, that you want to tell me?"

"Not now, my boy, another time, another time," and then he would utter a low groan.

This sort of thing took place in the dining-room, study, garden, or away out on the common, or in sandy lanes; and at last, after having his curiosity excited a great many times, Tom began to get tired of it, and had hard work to keep from some pettish remark.

"But I mustn't be unkind to him, poor fellow, now he's so ill," thought Tom; "he was very unkind to me, but I forgive him, and he's very affectionate to me now."

This was the case, for Uncle James seemed happier when he could get Tom alone, and hold his hand for some time; and he always ended by saying in a whimpering voice—

"Bless you, my boy, bless you!"

"Which is very nice," said Tom to himself more than once, "but it will sound sickly, and as if he was very weak. I can't make it out. It seems as if the worse he is, the kinder he gets to me, and as soon as he feels better he turns disagreeable. Oh, I am so tired of it; I wish he'd get well."

But all the same Tom never showed his weariness, but tugged and butted the invalid chair through the deep sand of the lanes, and sat on banks close by it reading the newspaper to his uncle in the most patient way, till the invalid was tired, and then dragged him back to Heatherleigh to dinner or tea.

One evening, after a week thoroughly devoted to the visitor, who had been more than usually exacting in the length of his rides, declining to hold the handle and guide himself, making Tom tug him up hills and through heavy bits of lane, along which the boy toiled away as stubbornly as a donkey, Uncle Richard came upon him in the garden, when he was free, for the invalid had gone to lie down.

"Well, Tom," he said.

"Well, uncle," cried the boy, looking up at him rather disconsolately.

"All our telescope-making seems to have come to an end."

"Yes, uncle."

"I suppose you mean to go back with Uncle James to town?"

"Is he going back to London?" cried the boy eagerly.

"Yes, before long; but you need not be so eager to go."

Tom stared at him.

"You are tired of Heatherleigh then?"

"Tired, uncle?"

"Yes; you've made me feel quite jealous. It's all Uncle James now. But there, it's boy-like to want plenty of change."

"But I don't want change."

"Not want change? Why, you show it every day."

Tom stared again, and then burst out in his abrupt way—

"Oh, uncle! you don't think I want to go back?"

"You were asking eagerly enough about it just now."

"Yes—because—I—that is—oh, uncle, don't be cross with me; I can't help it."

"No, I suppose not, Tom."

"But you don't understand me. I don't want to leave here; I wouldn't go back to London on any consideration. I—there, I must say it, I—I— there, I hate Uncle James."

"What!" said Uncle Richard, looking at the boy curiously. "You are never happy without you are along with him."

"But that's because he is ill, and I thought you wanted me to be attentive to him."

"Oh!"

"Yes, that's it, uncle. He never liked me, and always used to be cross with me, and now when he's very bad he's always so fond of me, and keeps me with him, so that I can't get away, and—and I don't like it at all."

"That's curious, isn't it, Tom?"

"Yes, uncle, I suppose it is, and I can't make it out. I don't understand it a bit. It's because he is ill, I suppose, and is sorry he used to be so rough with me. I wish he would get quite well and go back to London."

"Humph! And you would rather not go up to attend to him?"

"I'd go if you ordered me to, but I should be very miserable if I had to—worse than I am now. But, uncle, I am doing my best."

"Of course, Tom. There, I did not mean it, my boy. You are doing your duty admirably to your invalid relative. I hope we both are; and sick people's fancies are to be studied. I don't think though you need be quite so blunt, Master Blount, though," added Uncle Richard, smiling.

"I'll try not to be, uncle."

"And talk about hating people. Rather rough kind of Christianity that, Tom."

"I beg your pardon, it slipped out. I hope I don't hate him."

"So do I, my lad. There, go and do everything you can for him while he stays. He is certainly much better, and fancies now that he is worse than he is."

"I'll do everything I can, uncle," said Tom eagerly.

"I know you will, my boy; and as soon as we have set him on his legs again, you and I will grind the new speculum. The case with the two discs came down this afternoon while you were out with the chair."

"Oh!" cried Tom eagerly. "You haven't unpacked them without me, uncle?"

"No, and I do not mean to. We'll leave them where they are till our visitor has gone, and then we shall have to work like black-fellows to make up for lost time."

"Yes, uncle," cried Tom, rubbing his hands.

"No; like white-fellows," said Uncle Richard, smiling, "and I think we shall get on faster."

The next morning there was a surprise. It was Saturday, and about eleven, just when Tom had dragged round the invalid chair ready for the invalid, he saw a sprucely-dressed figure, with a "button-hole" in his coat, get down from the station fly, pay the man, and push open the gate with a cane, whose ivory crutch handle was held by a carefully-gloved hand.

For a few moments Tom was astounded; then he came to the conclusion that it was not very wonderful for a son to come down to see his sick father, and he left the chair, and went to meet his cousin.

"Hallo, bumpkin," said Sam contemptuously, "how are you?"

"Quite well," said Tom hesitatingly, and then frankly holding out his hand.

"All right; quite well, thanks," said Sam, tapping the extended hand with the cane. "Don't want to dirt my glove. What have you been doing—digging potatoes?"

"Only tidying up the chair for Uncle James."

"Hands look grubby. You should wash 'em. I say, what a beastly out-of-the-way place this is. Where's Uncle Dick? I only had a coffee and roll before I left London. Can I have some breakfast?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"How's dad?"

"Uncle James is better," said Tom quietly; and just then there was a loud groaning sound from within the porch.

"Oh—oh—oh!" at regular intervals.

"Hullo!" said Sam; "what's the matter? been killing somebody?"

"No. That's Uncle James being brought down from his room."

"Why, he wrote up and said he was better."

"It's because his breath is so short first thing in the morning."

"Oh, that's it," said Sam coolly, and he gave a sharp look round. "Is that the old windmill Uncle Dick bought?"

"Yes," said Tom, who felt rather disgusted with his cousin's indifference and cavalier airs.

At that moment they had nearly reached the porch from which the low groaning sounds issued, and the brothers appeared, with James leaning-heavily upon Richard's arm.

Uncle James started on seeing his son, and left off groaning.

"Morning, gov'nor," said Sam. "Better? Morning, Uncle Richard."

"Is—is anything wrong at the office?" cried Uncle James excitedly.

"Wrong? No. We get on all right."

"Then why have you come?"

"Oh, it was Saturday. Mother was going down to Brighton, and I thought I'd run down here from Saturday to Monday, and see how you were."

"Oh," said Uncle James in a tone of relief; and then he began to moan softly again, and moved toward the chair.

"Won't you stop for a bit, and chat with Sam?" said Uncle Richard.

"Eh? Yes, if you like," said his brother, hanging upon him feebly. "But it doesn't much matter now."

"Oh yes, it does, Jem, a good deal. Here, Sam, my lad, try and cheer your father up with what news you have of his business."

"All right, uncle; but I say, you've got a pretty place here."

"Glad you like it, my lad."

"But I say, uncle, I haven't had my breakfast. Started off so early."

"I dare say something is being got ready for you," replied his uncle, smiling. "My housekeeper is very thoughtful."

Click! came from through the dining-room window.

"That sounds very much like the coffee-pot lid," continued Uncle Richard. "Take your cousin in, Tom. I'll lead your uncle round the garden while Sam has his breakfast, and then they can have their chat."

"I couldn't do it, Dick—I couldn't do it," groaned his brother piteously. "I'm as feeble as a babe."

"Then the fresh air will strengthen you," said Uncle Richard; and moaning softly as he drew his breath, James Brandon went slowly down the gravel walk.

"Only does that moaning noise when he thinks about it," said Sam, as he entered the house.

"No, I've noticed that," replied Tom; but all the same he felt annoyed by his cousin's brutal indifference. "Let me take your hat."

"No, thanks. Hang it up myself. Don't want it spoiled."

Tom drew back while the hat and cane were deposited in their places; and then the pair entered the little dining-room, where a luncheon tray was already placed at one end of the table, but with coffee-pot and bread-and-butter just being arranged by Mrs Fidler.

"Ah, that's your sort," said Sam; "but I say, old lady, I'm peckish; haven't you got anything beside this?"

"Some ham is being fried, sir, and some eggs boiled," said Mrs Fidler rather stiffly.

"Hah! that's better," said Sam; and Mrs Fidler left the room. "Well, young fellow, how are you getting on?" he continued, as he seated himself and began upon the breakfast. "What do you do here—clean the knives and boots?"

"No," said Tom.

"I thought you did. Hands look grubby enough."

Tom glanced at his hands, and saw that they were as rough and red as his cousin's were white and delicate.

"I help uncle do all sorts of things," he said quietly, "and sometimes I garden."

"And wish yourself back at Mornington Crescent, I'll bet tuppence."

"I haven't yet," said Tom bluntly.

"No; you always were an ungrateful beggar," said Sam in a contemptuous tone. "But that's about all you were fit for—sort of gardener's boy."

Tom felt a curious sensation tingling in his veins, and his head was hot, for times had altered now, and he was not quite the same lad as the one who had submitted to be tyrannised over in town. He was about to utter some angry retort, but he checked himself.

"I won't quarrel with him," he said to himself; and just then Mrs Fidler appeared with a covered dish, which she placed before the visitor.

"Thankye," he said shortly. "Take the cover away with you."

There was always a line or two—anxious-looking lines—upon Mrs Fidler's forehead; now five or six appeared, and her eyebrows suddenly grew closer together, and her lips tightened into a thin line, as she took off the cover, and then went in a very dignified way from the room.

Sam attacked the ham and eggs directly, and made a very hearty meal, throwing a word or two now and then at his cousin, and asking a few questions, but in an offhand, assumed, man-about-town style, and without so much as glancing at Tom, who sat watching him till he had finished his breakfast, when he rose, cleared his voice, rang the bell, brushed a few crumbs from his clothes, and took out a cigarette case.

"There!" he said; "I'll join them down the garden now. Which is the way?"

"I'll take you," said Tom; and just as Mrs Fidler entered, followed by the maid to clear away, Sam struck a wax-match, lit his cigarette, and walked out into the little hall and out into the porch, followed by Tom.

"Not a bad part of the country," said Sam condescendingly; "but who does uncle find to talk to? Precious few decent houses."

"There are plenty," said Tom; "but they are a good way off. There's uncle at the bottom of the field."

"So I see," said Sam. "I have eyes in my head. Humph! flowers. Halloo! raspberries!"

He stepped off the green path they were on to where several rows of neatly-tied-up raspberry canes crossed the garden, and began to pull the ruddy thimbles off the tiny white cones upon which they grew; while David, who was on the other side busy removing young pear-tree shoots from the wall, stared at him aghast.

"Who's that fellow?" said Sam, as he took a whiff, then a raspberry, alternately.

"Our gardener."

"Our, eh? Well, tell him to go on with his work. What's he staring at?"

"You," said Tom bluntly.

Sam gave him a sharp look and returned to the path, bore off to his right, and began to examine the trained fruit trees on the wall.

"Pears, peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums," said Sam coolly. "Why, they're all green and unripe. No, they're not; here's an apricot looks ready."

David uttered a gasp, for the young visitor stepped on to the neat border and took hold of the yellow apricot, whose progress the gardener had been watching for days, gave it a tug, and broke off the twig which bore it.

"Bah!" he ejaculated, as he dragged away the twig and a wall-nail and shred. "Why, the wretched thing isn't ripe."

He spat out the mouthful he had taken between his lips, and jerked the bitten fruit out over the hedge into the lane.

"Well," muttered David, as the two lads went on, "I do call that imperdence. Wonder what master would ha' said if he'd seen."

"Master" had seen his nephew's act as he came from the other side of the field with his brother leaning upon his arm, but he made no remark respecting it.

"You would like to have a chat now with your boy about business, eh, James?"

"Oh, there's nothing to talk about," said Sam carelessly. "Everything is all right. I have seen to that. I kept Pringle pretty well up to his work."

"Poor old Pringle!" thought Tom. "I ought to write to him."

"Sam is right," said the lad's father; "and—and—oh, dear me, how weak I feel! I don't want to be troubled about business. Take me in now, Dick."

"Come along, then," said his brother good-humouredly. "Tom, my lad, you'd better show your cousin about the place, and try and interest him."

"All right, uncle," was the reply; and the two boys stood watching the brothers going towards the house.

"I don't know that I want to be shown about," said Sam haughtily. "I'm not a child. You country people seem to think that we want to see your cabbages and things. Here, let's go and look at the windmill. I say, did they have a row about it?"

"What—Uncle James and Uncle Richard?"

"Of course, stupid; who did you think I meant?"

"How could they have a row about the observatory?"

"I said windmill, stupid."

"It's an observatory now," said Tom coldly.

"Observatory! Yes; it looks it. The gov'nor was awfully wild about it. Nice brother, he said, to go and take the legal business to some one else instead of to our office. There, come along."

"I must get the keys first."

"Keys? Why, I thought you were all so beautifully innocent, that you never locked up anything in the country."

"But we do," said Tom. "Wait a minute. I'll soon be back."

"Don't hurry yourself, bumpkin. I'll have some more raspberries."

"I should like to bumpkin him," thought Tom, as he ran in, got the keys, and hurried back to where Sam was "worrying the rarsps," as David afterwards indignantly said; and then the boys walked together out into the lane, and from thence through the gate into the mill-yard.

"Do you ever come here with him moon-shooting?" said Sam contemptuously.

"Uncle has not been doing any astronomy lately," replied Tom; and feeling that he could not chat about their private life, he refrained from saying anything about the work upon which they had been engaged, but contented himself with showing the workshop, and then leading the way into the laboratory.

"What do you do here?" said Sam, looking contemptuously round.

"This is the laboratory."

"Dear me, how fine we are! What's in these bottles on the shelves?"

"Chemicals."

"That your desk where you do your lessons?"

"No; that's uncle's bureau where he keeps his papers. We're going to have another table, and some chemistry and astronomical books up soon. Uncle says that he shall make this an extra study."

"Keeps his papers, eh? His will too, I suppose?"

"I don't know," said Tom.

"Yes, you do. None of your sham with me, I know you, Master Tom. That the way up-stairs?"

"Yes," said Tom quietly; and they went on up the steps.

"Just as if you wouldn't be artful enough to know all about that. Bound to say you've read it half-a-dozen times over."

"I haven't looked in uncle's drawers, and if I had I shouldn't have read any of his papers."

"Not you, of course. Too jolly good; you are such a nice innocent sort of boy. Halloo! that the telescope? what a tuppenny-ha'penny thing."

"Uncle is going to have a big one soon."

"Oh, is he! What's that door for?"

"To open and look out at the stars."

"And that wheel?"

"To turn the whole of the roof round."

"Turn it then."

Tom obeyed good-humouredly enough, though at heart he resented the hectoring, bullying way adopted by his cousin, and thought how glad he would be when Monday came.

Then the shutter was opened, and the lads got out into the little gallery, where Tom began to point out the beauty of the landscape, and the distant houses and villages to be seen from the commanding height.

"Isn't there a splendid view?" he said.

"Bosh! I've been at the top of Saint Paul's. Not a bad place to smoke a cigarette."

He lit one with a great deal of nourish, leaned over the rail, and began puffing little clouds of smoke into the air; but all the same he did not seem to enjoy it, and at the end of a few minutes allowed the little roll of tobacco to go out.

"What time do you dine here?" he said; "seven?"

Tom laughed.

"Two o'clock," he said.

"I said dinner, not lunch, stupid."

"I know what you said," replied Tom, rather sharply, but he changed his tone directly afterward. "We don't have lunch, but early dinner, and tea at six."

"How horrible!" said Sam. "Here, let's go down."

He stepped back into the observatory, looking sharply at everything while Tom secured the shutter, and then they went down into the laboratory, which evidently took the visitor's attention.

"Wouldn't be a bad place with a good Turkey carpet and some easy-chairs. I should make it my smoking-room if I lived down here. I mean if I was transported down here."

"You don't think much of the place," said Tom good-humouredly; "but you'd like it if you lived here. There's capital fishing in the river, and the fir-woods swarm with rabbits. Walnut-wood," he added, as his cousin examined the bureau. "Uncle says the brass-work is very old and curious, nearly two hundred years, he thinks."

"Got a gun?" said Sam, turning sharply away.

"No."

"Can't you get one? We might go and shoot a few rabbits."

"I don't know whether we could even if there was a gun. They are preserved about here like the hares and pheasants."

"There are no hares about here?"

"Oh, yes. I've seen several and made them run."

"But no pheasants?"

"Plenty, and as tame as can be. I saw one the other day in our field."

"Here, let's go for a walk," said Sam, the real boyish nature coming out at last. "I rather like sport, and shall buy a double gun shortly."

They went down; the place was duly locked up, Tom having refrained from making any allusions to the speculum, and the work on hand, feeling as he did that his cousin would look upon it with a contemptuous sneer. Then the keys were returned to the house, and as the two lads stood in the hall they could hear the invalid talking very loudly to Uncle Richard, evidently upon some subject in which he took interest, and Sam laughed.

"What is it?" said Tom, staring.

"The gov'nor. Hear him? He has forgotten how bad he is. No groans now. Come on."

Tom felt disgusted. He had often noticed the same thing, and formed his own conclusion; but it annoyed him to hear his cousin holding his father's weakness up to ridicule; and he followed Sam out into the garden, and from thence along the sandy lane, thinking what a long time it would be till Monday, when the visitor would return to town.

They had not gone far along the edge of the pine-wood, when all at once a dog leaped out, to begin hunting amongst the furze and brambles, and dart in again.

"What's he after?" cried Sam.

"Rabbits."

As Tom spoke, his cousin struck a match to light a fresh cigarette; and as he lit up, he became aware of the fact that the long slouching figure of Pete Warboys was there by a tree, watching his act with profound interest.

Sam uttered a low laugh full of contempt, as he noticed the lad's eager gaze, and after sending a curl of smoke floating upon the air, he jerked the wax-match from him for a few yards, to fall beneath some old dead furze.