SITUATION SECOND.

The king had crossed the Rubicon. There was no going back with honour now. He was fairly over the fence, and in the domains of the rival king.

King Albus bent his wattles to the ground, and gazed at his rival with one eye. His rival's back was turned towards him, and he took not the slightest notice of the king.

"I wonder if he'll fight!" said the king to himself. "For my part I hope he won't, for I don't feel half so full of courage on this side of the fence as I did on the other. I daren't go back, though. How the young hens would giggle if I did, and how the old ones would cackle! No!"

All this time King Albus never moved; he still held his wattles close to the ground, and still looked at his rival with one eye, only sometimes he turned his head and looked with the other.

"He is pretending not to see me," he continued.

"He is afraid. I'll wager my wattles he's afraid. But—what?—do my eyes deceive me? No, he really has two lovely pure—white hens lying beside him. That seals his fate. If any one in the world ought to have white hens as companions, it is myself, because I am pure white. So he must die."

Now, although King Crèvecœur's back was turned to his rival, he could see him with the side of his eye, and besides, his two hens told him what the silly old Spaniard was doing.

"He's afraid to come on, I think," said one.

"Don't be too hard on him," said the other.

"A deal depends," replied Crèvecœur, shaking his head. "I have never insulted him; I can't help being bigger and handsomer and richer than he is; he has no right to go on envying me as he does. He deserves to be punished. He is mean, that is what he is. Stop, I'll give him a little encouragement—Cock-a-doodle-do-o!"

"It needed but that," cried King Albus.

He advanced speedily as he spoke, along by the side of the mill lead.

"Run away, my dears," said the Crève to his two hens, "the battle is about to commence."

One hen went; the other declared she would stand by him as long as she lived.

Now, it was a very remarkable thing, but no sooner had King Albus got close up behind King Crève, and was just about to strike the blow, that might or might not have both begun and ended the fight, than all his courage at once oozed out at his toes, and he really didn't feel he had pluck enough to raise his foot to strike, or even to keep his tail erect.

"I feel very faint," he said to himself, "I think I'll just take a run home and have a few crumbs of food, and then come back again."

He turned as he spoke and began to move off.

"Cock-a-doodle-do-o-o!" roared the cock with the plumes.

SITUATION THIRD.

Now, this was more than the meanest-spirited cock that ever crowed could stand.

He raised his tail again, wheeled suddenly round and faced his foe. The other cock or king also wheeled round, and so with ruffles raised and wings half spread, and with fire flashing from their eyes, the two confronted each other.

But courage now deserted the heart of the white hen, and she fled.

"Cray—cray—cray," she screamed; "there'll be bloodshed, cray—cray—cray!"

"Have you made your will?" cried the white king, fiercely. "Are you prepared for a watery grave?"

"As to my will," replied the dark king, "there'll be plenty of time to think about that when you're dead. As to the watery grave, I'm quite ready for it, as soon as I meet any one who has the strength and courage to send me there. It won't be you."

"You may imagine yourself dead already," roared the white king. "Your body will go floating down the mill-stream, and there won't be a feather of you left together an hour after this—the frogs and fish will eat you."

"Fish and frogs!" cried King Crève, "fiddlesticks! Come on and fight if you dare. I'll give you leave to strike the first blow."

Then the white cock grew very sentimental.

"I don't really want to kill you," he said; "it seems a pity."

"Now just look here," said the dark king. "What are you talking about? If you mean to fight—fight. If you don't mean to fight—go over the fence again."

"But I want to have something to say to you," cried King Albus.

"Well then, out with it. I'm not going to stand here palavering all day, with my feathers up like a ruffed grouse. I'm catching cold, I am. I'll go to work to warm myself presently, and it will be a bad thing for you when I do."

"What d'ye mean by being bigger than me, then?" said the white cock.

"Oh! that's your grievance, is it?"

"Yes, and what d'ye mean by crowing louder every morning, and wearing that silly old plume on top o' your poll, and those stupid long spurs on your heels, eh?"

"Anything else?"

"Ye-s—What d'ye mean by having more oats to eat than me? And more hens to walk about and sing to ye, eh?"

"Oh! You envious silly old thing, you," cried King Crève. "Go home at once, and learn to live a better life, do."

"Not till I've killed King Cur."

SITUATION FOURTH AND LAST.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

They were at it now spur and bill. The sound of the blows went echoing all over the farmyards where they lived. Whack! Whack! Whack! Dear me, how the feathers flew!

"My brave!" cried the fat old hen, "I never thought there was so much courage in him before!"

"Wait a bit," cried the saucy young one. "Plumes will give him a lesson presently."

"Plumes won't," shrieked the other.

"Plumes will" roared the young one. And lo! and behold those two hens got fighting behind the fence—so foolish of them—and thus there were two battles raging at one and the same time.

Now sometimes, right is might, but in this case right and might were both on the same side. For King Albus had no business to be so envious and jealous of his neighbour, simply because he was better than he; and he was certainly very wrong to invade his territory. If he had only stayed at home, and been content with his own surroundings, he might have lived and been happy for many a long day.

To do the white king justice, however, he fought well. Though a coward at heart, now that he found himself really engaged, he knew that to give in would mean being trodden to death under the feet of his foe. So he fought on and on.

Both shortly paused for breath, and the white king began turning over the gravel with his bill, as if looking for a grub or two. This was merely a pretence, in order to gain time, and the dark king knew that well enough.

"Don't be silly," he said, tantalisingly, "grubs don't grow in the gravel. I don't believe you could swallow a grub if you had one. Go home now, and come back again when your poor old head is healed."

"I'll heal you!" roared King Albus, "I'll grub you!"

Then the battle re-commenced with re-doubled fury.

But it did not last much longer. The dark king watched his chance, and bringing all his strength to bear on one blow, sent his adversary sprawling and roaring for mercy right into the mill-stream.

Then he jumped nimbly on top of him and crowed.

His weight sank his foe, he gave a gasp or two, then away he floated still and quiet enough, while the dark king jumped on shore, and coolly began to re-arrange his ruffled plumage, his two hens soon returning to admire him.

"I told you," cried the young hen, "that Plumes would kill him."

"Ah! well," said the fat old hen, "such things will happen, you know. It can't be helped. It's a pity, of course. But he was always rather haughty and overbearing, and envious too; and if there is one feeling more distasteful to me than another it is Envy."

Arion

LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—XI.

"Never do it, dear, no matter how you are cooking the meat, that is, of course, unless you wish to get the goodness out; that will alter the state of the case altogether."

"Is it time to turn the steak again, mother?"

"Yes, dear. Turn it quickly, because by so doing you make both sides brown, and that keeps in the juice. It is very curious how people who are clever in Cookery differ about whether or not meat which is being broiled should be turned. I say most decidedly, turn it frequently. First make one side brown as quickly as you can, then the other, and after that turn it every two minutes."

"You have to keep on watching it, though," said Margaret.

"Of course you have. I told you so at the beginning."

"It begins to smell very deliciously," said Mary.

"So it does, Mary. I think broiling is one of the most perfect ways of cooking, though it is so simple and easily managed, and so quick also."

"Is it quick, mother? How long does it take? A quarter of an hour to the pound?"

"No, dear, you cannot count the time in that way, it is not safe. You must learn to know by the look and the touch of the meat whether it is done or not. This steak takes about twelve minutes you will find, but then Mary had taken care to have the fire clear and fierce, and the steak was cut evenly. Press the meat with the flat blade of a knife to find whether it is done. You will, after trying once or twice, know how it feels when it is sufficiently cooked. It should be nearly black outside and the inside should be red all the way through. There should not be a blue line of raw meat in the middle—that is quite wrong.

"I don't like red underdone meat," said Margaret. "I cannot eat it."

"A broiled steak is not red because it is under-dressed; it is red because it is full of gravy. Now our steak is done, I think. Press it with the knife that you may know how it feels."

The little girls pressed it, and looked very wise.

"The plates have been warming for such a long time, that I cannot take hold of them," said Mary.

"That is as they should be. They ought to be very hot indeed for a broil."

"Mother, how many more lessons in Cookery have we?"

"Only one, dear. Your holidays are almost over."

"May we choose what we will make next time, mother?"

"I am rather afraid to promise for fear you should choose something unlikely—a wedding-cake for instance."

"We were going to choose a wedding-cake, mother."

"I would rather you dismissed it from your thoughts, my little daughter. A wedding-cake costs a good deal to begin with; it is not particularly wholesome food. I could not let you eat more than an inch or two, for fear you should be ill. Think of something else."

"Very well, mother. We will think it thoroughly over; and if we choose something reasonable, and not unwholesome, may we make what we wish, just to finish up well?"

"Yes, that I will readily agree to," said Mrs. Herbert, and the children went away contented.

(To be continued.)

LEGENDS OF THE FLOWERS.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

"No, sir; papa made Eddie and I promise we would never even taste it till we grew to be men, and we never have. He said that then we would like it so little that we would not care if we never tasted it a second time."

"He was quite right, boy. And now tell me why you refused my invitation. Were you afraid of offending your uncle?"

"No, sir."

"What, then?" Mr. Murray said, looking stern. "Tell me just the truth."

"I don't think my cousins wanted us to go; I felt that they wouldn't have been kind to us; and I am sure Aunt Gregory would have been displeased. I did not think we should have been happy, sir, I'm sure Eddie would have been miserable after what he said."

"What did Eddie say?" Mr. Murray asked.

"If you please, sir, I'd rather not tell you: he wouldn't like it," Bertie replied, looking quite troubled at the turn the conversation was taking.

"But I want to know, and I must know; tell me this moment what Eddie said. Am I not your father's old friend? Go on, boy."

Mr. Murray looked so angry, and his eyes flashed so under his shaggy knitted brows, that Bertie was quite frightened.

"Eddie said he did not like being poor or seeing people who knew him when he was rich; and he's so clever and so proud; and he would be so miserable if the boys treated him as they do me. So I thought if I came back to town they wouldn't go without me," Bertie said hurriedly. "And now, sir, please may I go back? Uncle will be so angry; he says all office time belongs to him, and any one who wastes a moment of it, or is late, or leaves before the clock strikes, is a thief!" Bertie's voice fell to an awed whisper, and his ruddy cheeks grew quite pale at the bare idea of being thought dishonest, and yet he knew that Mr. Gregory would not spare him a bit more than any one else; and it was half-past two, and Bertie was due back at one o'clock.

"Do you think your time belongs to your uncle?" Mr. Murray asked suddenly.

"Yes, sir, of course; he pays me," Bertie replied. "Please may I go now?"

"One moment. Tell me what reward you expect for having brought that bag here to-day."

"Reward!" Bertie stammered, looking the very picture of confusion. "I don't know what you mean. The bag was not mine, and I managed to give it back to the person it belonged to: that's all, sir. Why should I be rewarded? But the cabman was so grateful, he said, 'Heaven bless the gentleman! he's done a better turn than he knew to-day;' and he kissed the sovereign, sir; and I'm sure there were tears in his eyes, because he said——" Bertie stopped suddenly; perhaps he had no right to repeat the cabby's words, spoken under the influence of sudden and joyful excitement; but Mr. Murray commanded him to go on. "Because he said, 'My poor wife is dyin', and this 'ere precious sov will let me go right 'ome, and spend the rest of the day with her. Heaven bless the gentleman!' Oh, he did look so happy!" and Bertie's own eyes filled with sympathetic tears, though his lips smiled. "I don't think I shall mind Uncle Gregory's scolding a bit when I think of the poor cabby's happiness," he added.

"Bertie, a truly good and honest action is like a pebble thrown in a pool of water: at first it makes a little splash that is not of much account, but the tiny circle widens and widens, till the whole surface is influenced. Life is a limitless pool. Do you know where the circle you started to-day may end? No; neither do I; no human being knows, but God does. Already it has benefited me a little, that unhappy clerk who lost the bag a great deal, that poor cabby with his dying wife a great deal more. Who knows how many more innocent and perfectly unconscious people may have been influenced by the accident, if, indeed, there is such a thing as accident in this world of ours. Just think for one moment what would have been the result if you had carried that bag to your office, put it in your desk, and never said a word about it till to-morrow morning, when there would perhaps have been an advertisement in The Times, offering fifty pounds reward. You might have got the money and been happy, and five thousand people might have been miserable for life. Such was the importance of those papers. Now, my carriage is at the door, and I'll set you down in the City. Tell your uncle the exact truth, and always act, Bertie Rivers, as you did to-day, honestly and promptly: not because it may benefit yourself, but because it's sure to have a beneficial influence on every one else. Remember the pebble and the pool."

Mr. Murray did not speak another word till they reached the top of Mincing Lane; there the carriage stopped and Bertie got out, but in spite of all the kind things the old gentleman had said, in spite of the consciousness of having done quite right from one point of view, in spite of his real pleasure on the clerk's and the cabby's account, he felt positively nervous about entering the presence of his uncle, and actually loitered outside for fully five minutes before venturing to push back the swing doors, and enter the outer office of Gregory and Co. He fancied all the clerks were looking at him in surprised compassion, though in reality not one of them had noticed him, and if they had, they would only think he had been sent on an errand by his uncle. With a loudly-beating heart he entered his uncle's room fairly trembling in every limb, the ominous silence of every one having completely terrified him.

Mr. Gregory was writing, and only raised his eyes for one moment as Bertie took his seat, but he looked very stern, and without doubt there would be a storm in a few moments, for Bertie was not a stranger to the rigid rules of the office. At the end of ten minutes the busy pen was laid aside, a heap of letters pushed into the basket, and by a motion of his hand Mr. Gregory summoned his nephew to stand before him.

"You are just two hours and a quarter late," he said, glancing at his watch. "Will you kindly explain to me where you have been and what you have been doing?"

"Yes, Uncle Gregory;" and in a very quavering voice Bertie recounted every incident that occurred from the moment he left the office for luncheon till he returned, dwelling least on his interview with Mr. Murray and most on the necessity of overtaking the gentleman who had lost the bag. He then explained what he had heard in the train in the morning, and how important it was that the papers should be signed at once. But Mr. Gregory's face grew graver and sterner as he listened, and instead of praising Bertie, he looked as if he could have cheerfully given him a good thrashing.

"You should have brought that bag to me, sir; you should have remembered that during office hours your time is mine. I am very angry with you, Herbert Rivers, and, what is still worse, very much disappointed. I imagined that you were a steady, straightforward boy, who meant to profit by the exceptional opportunities given you. I fancied you were worthy of the kindness I have bestowed upon you, and I find you a clever, artful, designing creature. Why did you say you preferred to come back to business instead of going with your cousins? why did you come, boy? To cross, thwart, annoy me? In my opinion, you came simply to ingratiate yourself with Mr. Murray, and your conduct to-day has proved it. Why should you find his papers? Why should you take them to him instead of to me—your uncle and guardian, as well as your master? I tell you again that it's my opinion you are a bad, artful designing boy, and I'm very sorry I ever set your foot on the high road to fortune, for I'm sadly afraid you will turn out a disgrace to me some day!"

"Not so bad as that, Gregory, I hope," Mr. Murray said, entering the room; he had been standing in the doorway unnoticed for some minutes, and overheard a good deal of the conversation. "Your nephew is not going to disgrace you, because he did what was clearly his duty in a very clever way. Cheer up, Bertie; your uncle will have a better opinion of you presently."

For answer, Bertie hid his face amongst the circulars on his desk, and burst into a passionate fit of crying, none the less bitter because his uncle sternly commanded him to be quiet, and carry a note to a gentleman in Threadneedle Street, and wait for an answer. Meanwhile Mr. Murray sat down, as if he meant to have a long conversation with Mr. Gregory, who looked as if he most cordially wished his visitor sixty miles away, as he thought him in reality to be, before he had heard Bertie's curious story.

CHAPTER XIV.—BERTIE IN DIFFICULTIES.

W
hen he left the office on his uncle's errand, Bertie Rivers felt very miserable. For a minute he seemed almost stunned by his uncle's words, "A disgrace!" Was it possible that merely doing right ever could bring disgrace to anybody? if so, what was the good of doing right at all? But then, Mr. Murray had commended him, had said right always helped the largest number of people, though one might sometimes suffer; but even in a good cause to be called artful, designing, to be suspected of trying to make friends with Mr. Murray, and leading his uncle to suppose that he did not want to even accept his invitation, was too bitterly hard, and for the first time in his life Bertie felt as if he must throw himself down by the wayside, and sob his sorrow out to some one.

"Oh, if I could only see Aunt Amy!" he said aloud as he toiled up the stairs to the address on the note in his hand. "If I could only tell her all!" and then, as the gentleman was out and he was desired to wait, he sat on a form on the landing, and while seeming to watch the never-ending crowd of passers-by in Threadneedle Street, he was really thinking, "I must see my Aunt Amy. I must, I must, I must!"

The passing cabs attuned themselves to the words, the newspaper-boys, crying "Evening Paper, fourth edition," the flower-sellers, the sellers of mechanical toys, revolving purses, performing mice, and other living and dead monstrosities that haunt the vicinity of the Stock Exchange and Bank, all seemed to "cry" the same thing to Bertie, "I must see Aunt Amy. I must, I must, I must!"

Till four o'clock Bertie sat patiently waiting for an answer to his note, then the commissionaire came and told him that there was no chance of the gentleman he wanted being there that day; so he went back to Mincing Lane, only to find the office shut up, and then, for the first time, he glanced at a clock, and saw that it was a quarter after four. He had no very definite idea of how the time had gone, but the one uppermost idea still in his mind was to get to Aunt Amy, and tell her all his troubles, and ask her if she thought he had been so very much to blame.

At length Bertie started to walk home; he had no ticket, for he had gone to the office with his uncle before his holiday; and he had no money: his last penny had been spent at Brighton, and Mr. Gregory had not remembered to give him his usual weekly allowance; but there was the savings' bank: he could get some of his own money and go to see Aunt Amy at once. But the "book" was at Kensington, he remembered, and he called to mind, too, that the people at the Post Office wanted notice before paying any deposits, so that would not do. In his sore trouble and impatience he wanted to rush off to the station that moment, and even an express train would be far too slow for his wishes. As he walked towards Kensington he kept thinking all the time how he was to get the money. Whom could he ask to help him? But he did not ask any one, and at last, weary with his walk and his troubled thoughts, hot and dusty, he turned into the Park, and threw himself on the grass in the quietest spot he could find. He was close to Kensington Gardens, and a few minutes would bring him home; but Bertie felt as if he must have a rest before the duties of the evening commenced. For the first time in his life his work seemed distasteful to him, and the idea of being shut up alone with his uncle in the library after what had taken place was almost unbearable. If he only could get away to Aunt Amy and tell her all, it would be such a comfort. Once he pulled out his watch, and for a moment thought of selling it, then with a start he remembered that it was his dear father's last present. Above all things, he could not part with that. It really seemed as if there were no resource but to wait till he got his money from the savings' bank, and by that time Aunt Amy would be just about returning to Fitzroy Square.

"I suppose I may as well wait, and be as patient as I can," he mused; "besides, Uncle Gregory may think differently after what Mr. Murray said to him to-day;" and then he turned over lazily on the grass, pulled his hat over his eyes, and in a very few minutes was sound asleep. He was very tired, and fairly worn out with the excitement as well as the fatigue of the long summer's day, and he slept heavily. How long he did not know, when he started to his feet suddenly, to find himself quite damp from a heavy dew, chilled, stiff, sore, and, worst of all, hungry. The park was quite deserted and very dark, still he knew his way tolerably well, and hurried towards the gate, shivering partly with cold, partly with nervousness, at finding himself quite alone in the dark—everything was so gloomy and weird. When he reached the gates he was really frightened to find them locked, and to see by the lamplight that it was just eleven o'clock. What would Uncle Gregory say when he got home? How was he to get home unless some one came and let him out? for though a tolerably skilful climber, Bertie felt that great swing gate was beyond him; he did not like to venture over the sharp spikes at the top, even if he could get so high. For a few minutes he called loudly, but no one took the least notice, and he was becoming more and more frightened when he saw the friendly gleam of a policeman's lantern. It was some time before he could attract his attention, and when he did the man spoke quite gruffly, and threatened him with all sorts of pains and penalties for being in the park after hours.

"I couldn't help it, indeed!" Bertie cried, earnestly. "I was so tired that I fell asleep, and uncle will be dreadfully anxious about me. Oh, do please find some one to let me out!"

"Who's your uncle? and where does he live?" the policeman said, a little less gruffly, for as he turned his bull's-eye on Bertie he saw he was not a common offender, but a handsome young gentleman, who looked in real, not sham, trouble.

"My uncle is Mr. Gregory, and he lives in Gore House, just close by. Oh, do please, get me out! he will be so anxious!"

The policeman hesitated for a moment, and then directed Bertie to a part of the railing tolerably easy to climb, from which he assisted him carefully to get down, and walked with him to Gore House. There was light in the library and dining-room, but there did not seem to be any fuss or confusion, and it just struck Bertie that perhaps he had not been missed at all. His uncle had seemed very preoccupied all day; perhaps he had forgotten all about him since the time he had sent him to Threadneedle Street. As it happened, that was just the case. Mr. Gregory did not come home till late, when he was accompanied by Mr. Murray; and immediately after dinner both gentlemen went into the library, and had remained there ever since. It was as James the footman opened the door, and the policeman and Bertie entered the hall, that Mr. Gregory and Mr. Murray entered it too from the library.

"I wish you would let me order the carriage," Mr. Gregory was saying, when he stopped suddenly and hurried forward. "What's all this? Bertie Rivers and a policeman! What has he been doing?" he asked, in a tone that made the hearers think he was almost glad to see his nephew in difficulties.

"There's not much amiss, sir," the policeman answered respectfully. "This young gentleman says he was tired, and fell asleep in the park. Of course he got locked in, and I helped him out. That's all, sir; unless he has got cold from sleeping on the grass."

"Why were you in the park? why did not you come straight home? Give an account of yourself," Mr. Gregory said sternly.

"I went to Threadneedle Street, sir, and waited for an answer, as you told me, but the gentleman did not come in; then I went back to Mincing Lane, but the office was shut, and I walked home."

"Why did you walk?" Mr. Gregory interrupted.

"I had no money, sir," Bertie replied defiantly; "and I thought I was to return with you, but you were gone."

"Well, why didn't you come straight home? Why did you loiter in the park? I don't believe a word you have said!"

"He was in the park right enough, sir. I seed him there and helped him out; and any one as walked from the City might fall asleep without much blame on an afternoon like the one to-day," the policeman said, feeling a little indignant at Bertie's reception, and perhaps disappointed at the poor prospect of reward for himself.

"Get about your business!" Mr. Gregory said shortly, and the man turned aside with a muttered exclamation, but Bertie seized his hand and thanked him warmly, and Mr. Murray just then contrived to slip a more tangible reward into his other hand. Then the old gentleman turned to Bertie, and patted him kindly on the shoulder. "Why, dear me, boy! you are quite wet," he cried, starting back, "and you are as white as anything. Had you any dinner? of course not; nor any tea? how very tiresome of you! But then you had no money, and you came up from Brighton this morning, and had a tiresome, exciting day. Better you went in the yacht, boy, far better and pleasanter; and your uncle could have done very well without you;" and Mr. Murray frowned and chuckled in the most extraordinary way as he pushed Bertie before him into the dining-room, and rang the bell just as if the whole place belonged to him, while Mr. Gregory immediately followed, looking very dark and stern.

"James, get this boy a cup of hot cocoa and some cold meat directly, and tell some one to prepare a warm bath for him; and you must give him a holiday to-morrow, Mr. Gregory. He should stay in bed all the day if he's to escape a violent cold. Now I must be off. Good night; good night, boy; take great care of yourself, you are very fortunate that you didn't have to sleep in the park all night."

And with another friendly pat on the shoulder, Mr. Murray departed, leaving Bertie drinking his cocoa with evident enjoyment, and Mr. Gregory frowning with annoyance.

In more ways, and more seriously than he knew, Bertie had caused his uncle loss and disappointment that day, and Mr. Gregory was not inclined to forgive him very easily; least of all was he disposed to overlook the sudden interest taken in him by Mr. Murray, and the conversation that afternoon at the office, and in the evening at Gore House, had been chiefly about the two boys whom fortune had thrown on the world so young, and so little able to help themselves. Mr. Murray asked persistently if something better could not be done for them. Mr. Gregory maintained that they were both well and generously treated, but Bertie's white woe-begone face and evident fear of his uncle spoke little for the happiness of his life in Gore House; and as he walked home in the quiet, sultry August night, Mr. Murray sketched out a plan which he thought would please the boys, and make life more pleasant for the sons of his dead friend, but it would take some time and trouble to mature, and then both boys would have to be fully tried and tested before the idea was made known to them. "I have no fear about Bertie: he's a brave, bright, truthful lad; even the vague suspicion of being false cuts him like a knife. No man should say he doesn't believe a boy like that without positive proof. As for his brother—well, I'm afraid he's a difficult youngster to manage, but he's all right at the bottom. I have no doubt he will stand the test too; and the sooner we get poor Bertie out of his difficulties the better it will be for him."

CHAPTER XV.—BAD NEWS FROM BRIGHTON.

When Mr. Murray left the dining-room at Gore House, Mr. Gregory followed him as far as the hall door, then he returned for a moment, and looked at Bertie angrily. It seemed as if he were going to say something of importance, but suddenly checked himself with a hasty stamp of his foot; then he said, more quietly, "Get to bed as soon as possible, and be down in good time in the morning, and see that you don't fall asleep out of doors again," and left the dining-room.

Bertie was not very long after him, and though he felt much better for his supper, he was still so stiff and chilled that the warm bath was a real luxury. His head was scarcely on the pillow before he was sound asleep, but he was troubled and restless, and awoke in the morning feeling dull and unrefreshed, and with the uncomfortable sense of something having happened that he vainly tried to recall. However, he got up and was downstairs before his uncle.

Mr. Gregory spoke to him coldly, without looking up from his pile of letters, and Bertie ate his breakfast in silence: that is, he drank his coffee, but food seemed to hurt his throat strangely, and in spite of the brilliant sunshine, he shivered nervously once or twice. Just as breakfast was finished there came a telegram for Mr. Gregory, which, when he had read it, he handed over to Bertie.

The message was from Aunt Amy, saying that Uncle Clair was ill, and wished to see Bertie, if his Uncle Gregory would permit him to go. The paper fell from his trembling fingers as he looked at the unconcerned features of his uncle, and he gasped, rather than asked, "May I go, sir?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," was the cold reply, "though I fail to see what possible good you can do. You can come into the City with me, and go down by the noon express; telegraph to that effect when you reach the office."

"Thank you, Uncle Gregory; and if you please, will you let me have some money?" Bertie faltered, blushing, and looking very much confused. "I'm afraid it would take me too long to get my own out of the savings' bank."

Mr. Gregory took a sovereign from his pocket. "That will be sufficient for your expenses. Watts shall get your ticket;" and Mr. Gregory rose from the table, and rang for his hat and gloves. The dog-cart was already at the door, and presently Bertie was beside his uncle driving City-wards.

Mr. Gregory looked very stern and angry, and once or twice seemed on the point of asking Bertie some questions, but always checked himself. The fact was, Mr. Gregory felt very curious as to what Mr. Murray had said to Bertie, whether he had made him any fine promises, or, in short, shown the lad himself the keen interest that he took in him, and how resolved he was to do something to alter his condition. Mr. Gregory had very confidently hoped that one of his own sons would have been the old gentleman's favourite, and but for the unfortunate encounter with the Rivers' lads, he felt quite confident that such would have been the case. Then the finding of the papers and the immediate return of them annoyed Mr. Gregory very much. If he could have kept them back for one day it would have been considerably to his interest; and though he liked and fully appreciated a boy who was quick to think and prompt to act, he liked the quickness and promptitude to be for, not against, himself. In fact, though he would not acknowledge it, even to himself, Mr. Gregory's business affairs just then were in a very critical condition: during the summer many of his ventures had failed; many large firms with which he did business had also failed; and though the credit of his house was as yet above suspicion, trade was very dull, and matters generally looked threatening. It was that that caused Mr. Gregory to court an alliance in any shape with the firm of Murray and Co., that enjoyed a reputation second only to the Bank of England. With one of his sons in the office, and treated as the adopted child of the head of the firm, Mr. Gregory felt as if he could face a financial earthquake; therefore he did not care to see Bertie rendering important services, did not care to hear him praised for exceptional business capacity, least of all did he like to hear his old friend Mr. Murray almost reproach himself for the lad's dependent position, and say sadly that in a great measure he was the cause of their father's ruin. Such a statement from an enormously wealthy, Quixotically generous man meant possible reparation; there was really no telling what he might not do for Bertie and Eddie Rivers; so Mr. Gregory determined very prudently, as he thought, to keep the boys as much as possible out of the old gentleman's way. Therefore he allowed Bertie to go to Brighton, with permission to remain as long as his uncle and aunt required him, and telegraphed to his wife to send his second son Dick up to town without delay.

"Harry must go to Oxford and get into Parliament," he said to himself, "and I must sacrifice Dick to his interest and advancement." It was a singular thing Mr. Gregory never thought it the least sacrifice to place Bertie Rivers in his office, even when he was younger and worse educated than his own son. "Bertie is a smart, industrious lad, with better business capacity than Dick," he reflected, as he watched Bertie go through his morning's work, apparently oblivious to everything outside, forgetful of his stiff limbs, sore throat, hard words, and, worst of all, the terrible telegram from Brighton; he simply crushed the thoughts down and did his work steadily, till his uncle told him it was time to go to the station.

"Good-bye. I hope you will find Mr. Clair better," he said, ungraciously enough. "Watts, get a hansom, and be quick."

Bertie needed no second bidding to go, and as he left the office it was with an earnest wish that he might never have to enter it again. He little knew that his uncle's thoughts at the same moment were, "I hope he may never come back; or if he does, I hope Dick will be with Mr. Murray."

That gentleman meantime had driven round to Gore House about eleven o'clock, with the intention of taking Bertie out for a couple of hours, and so studying his manners and temper, but to his astonishment, he learned the boy had driven into town with his uncle, and was going down to Brighton to see his other uncle, who was dangerously ill. James had consulted the telegram he found on the breakfast-table, and from it and the fragments of conversation he picked up, knew pretty accurately what Master Bertie's movements were going to be. "He's going down by the twelve train, sir, but he looks more fit to be in his bed," James continued. "I believe he's caught a violent cold: he was that hoarse to-day, and his face as white as milk; and he had no breakfast."

Mr. Murray listened in silence, only nodding his head gravely every few seconds, then he told his coachman to drive him at once to London Bridge Station; there he would find out the truth as to whether Bertie was ill or going to Brighton, and act accordingly. But the City was very crowded, his carriage frequently got blocked, and he only reached the station in time to jump into a carriage, where he fancied he caught a glimpse of Bertie's head in a corner. He had not even time to get a ticket or give his servants any instructions; but then, Mr. Murray was known to be eccentric, and he always paid most liberally for his whims.

Bertie, who was alone in the carriage, looked first surprised, and then very pleased. He was terribly low-spirited, his head ached, his throat was sore, worst of all, he was cold, and would probably have sobbed the whole way to Brighton had he been alone, and so made himself very ill. But Mr. Murray cheered him up wonderfully, chatted briskly all the way about everything a boy could be expected to take an interest in, and in fact made the time pass so pleasantly that they were at Brighton long before Bertie thought they were half-way. When they reached the house (for Mr. Murray went too), the blinds were all down, and that gave Bertie a sudden chill; and as he knocked at the door he glanced with terrified, appealing eyes at Mr. Murray, who drew a step nearer, and took Bertie by the hand. It was a firm, reassuring clasp, and the boy glanced at him gratefully, and when the door was opened, thus hand in-hand they went upstairs, and were met just at the drawing-room door by Mrs. Clair. One glance at her face was sufficient to tell them something dreadful had happened. Bertie was in her arms in a moment, while Eddie and Agnes—white, wild-eyed, terror-stricken—clung on either side. It was a heartrending picture of sorrow and despair, and Mr. Murray could not witness it unmoved. He just shook hands with Mrs. Clair, whispered a few words that he would telegraph at once to Mr. Gregory, and would call again in a few hours, to ask if he could be of any service.

"Remember, my dear Mrs. Clair, you are not alone here. I will see to everything for you: Rely on me, command me, and remember I was your brother's dearest friend. I will call as soon as I get Gregory's answer. By the way, that boy Bertie is very ill; he has a violent cold, he has eaten nothing to-day, he is very unhappy; if you can, forget' your own sorrow for an hour in comforting him;" and then Mr. Murray hurried away, having left a ray of sunshine in a very shady place, and cheered and comforted Mrs. Clair, who was alone, helpless, bewildered, in her terrible and sudden affliction. Surely Heaven had sent her a friend in her direst distress, and she was truly grateful.

(To be continued.)

THE FOX AND THE FROG.