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and said he might not return this afternoon.”

      “Felt I was coming perhaps,” said the visitor. “Here, don’t let me hinder you, my lad; he won’t like you to waste time. Getting on with your law reading?”

      The boy looked at him wistfully, and shook his head.

      “Eh? No? But you must, my lad. You’re no fool, you know, and you’ve got to be a clever lawyer before you’ve done.”

      Tom felt disposed to quote his other uncle’s words as to his folly, but he choked down the inclination.

      “There, I won’t hinder you, my lad,” continued the visitor. “I know what you busy London people are, and how we slow-going country folk get in your way. I only want to look at a Directory, – you have one I know.”

      “Yes, sir, in the other office. I’ll fetch it.”

      The quiet, grey-haired, grave-looking visitor gave a nod as if of acquiescence, and Tom ran into the inner office, where he found that Pringle must have heard every word, for he was holding out the London Directory all ready.

      “He must hear everything too when uncle goes on at me,” thought Tom, as he took the Directory and returned Pringle’s friendly nod.

      “Tell him he ought to give you a tip.”

      Tom frowned, shook his head, and hurried back with the great red book.

      “Hah, that’s right, my boy,” said the visitor. “There, I don’t want to bother about taking off my gloves and putting on my spectacles. Turn to the trades, and see if there are any lens-makers down.”

      “Yes, sir, several,” said Tom, after a short search.

      “Read ’em down, boy.”

      Tom obeyed alphabetically till he came to D, and he had got as far as Dallmeyer when his visitor stopped him.

      “That will do,” he said. “That’s the man I want. Address?”

      Tom read this out, and the visitor said —

      “Good; but write it down so that I don’t forget. It’s so easy to have things drop out of your memory.”

      Tom obeyed, and the visitor took up the slip of paper, glanced at it, and nodded.

      “That’s right. Nice clear hand, that one can read easily.”

      “And Uncle James said my writing was execrable,” thought Tom.

      “Good-bye for the present, boy. Tell your uncle I’ve been, and that I shall come on in time for dinner. Bye. Be a good boy, and stick to your reading.”

      He nodded, shook hands rather coldly, and went out, leaving Tom looking wistfully after him with the big Directory in his hands.

      “They neither of them like me,” he said to himself, feeling sadly depressed, when he started, and turned sharply round.

      “On’y me, Mr Tom,” said the clerk. “I’ll take that. Directories always live in my office. I say, sir.”

      “Yes, Pringle.”

      “I used to wish I’d got a lot of rich old uncles, but I don’t now. Wouldn’t give tuppence a dozen for ’em. Ketched again! – All right, Mr Tom, sir; I’ll put it away.”

      For the door opened once more, and their late visitor thrust in his head.

      “Needn’t tell your uncle I shall come to-night.”

      Pringle disappeared with the Directory, and Uncle Richard gazed after him in a grim way as he continued —

      “Do you hear? Don’t tell him I shall come; and you needn’t mention that I said he wouldn’t want me, nor to his wife and boy neither. Bye.”

      The door closed again, and the inner door opened, and Pringle’s head appeared once more.

      “Nor we don’t neither, nor nobody else don’t. I say, Mr Tom, I thought it was the governor. Ever seen him before?”

      “Only twice,” said Tom. “He has been abroad a great deal. He only came back to England just before dear mother – ”

      Tom stopped short, and Pringle nodded, looked very grave, and said softly —

      “I know what you was going to say, Mr Tom.”

      “And I saw him again,” continued the lad, trying to speak firmly, “when it was being settled that I was to come here to learn to be a lawyer. Uncle James wanted Uncle Richard to bring me up, but he wouldn’t, and said I should be better here.”

      “Well, perhaps you are, Mr Tom, sir,” said Pringle thoughtfully. “I don’t know as I should care to live with him.”

      “Nor I, Pringle, for – Here, I say, I don’t know why I tell you all this.”

      Pringle grinned.

      “More don’t I, sir. P’r’aps it’s because we both get into trouble together, and that makes people hang to one another. Steps again. Go it, sir.”

      The clerk darted away, and Tom started leading once more; but the steps passed, and so did the long, dreary afternoon, with Tom struggling hard to master something before six o’clock came; and before the clock had done striking Pringle was ready to shut up and go.

      “You’ll take the keys, sir,” he said. “Guv’nor won’t come back now. I’ve got well on with that deed, if he asks you when he comes home. Good-evening, sir.”

      “Good-evening, Pringle,” said Tom; and ten minutes later he was on his way to his uncle’s house in Mornington Crescent, where he found dinner waiting for him, and though it was only cold, it was made pleasant by the handmaid’s smile.

      Tom began a long evening all alone over another law-book, and at last, with his head aching, and a dull, weary sense of depression, he went up to the bedroom which he shared with his cousin, jumped into his own bed as soon as he could to rest his aching head, and lay listening to a street band playing airs that sounded depressing and sorrowful in the extreme, and kept him awake till he felt as if he could never drop off, and cease hearing the rumble of omnibuses and carts.

      Then all at once Mr Tidd came and sat upon his head, and made it ache ten times worse, or so it seemed – Mr Tidd being the author of one of the books his uncle had placed in his hands to read.

      He tried to force him off, but he would not stir, only glared down at him laughing loud, and then mockingly, till the torture seemed too much to be borne; and in an agony of misery and despair he tried to escape from the pressure, and to assure his torturer that he would strive hard to master the book. But not a word could he utter, only lie there panting, till the eyes that glared looked close down into his, and a voice said —

      “Now then, wake up, stupid. Don’t be snoring like that.”

      Chapter Three

      Tom Blount started up in bed confused and staring. He was only half awake, and it was some time before he could realise that it was his cousin, who had come back from his trip boisterous and elated, and who had been playing him some trick as he lay there asleep.

      “Well, what are you staring at, old torpid?” cried Sam, as he now began to divest himself slowly of his coat and vest.

      “I – that is – have been asleep,” stammered Tom.

      “Asleep? Yes, and snoring loud enough to bring the plaster off the ceiling. Why, you must have been gorging yourself like a boa-constrictor, and been sleeping it off. Come, wake up, bumpkin, you’re half stupid now.”

      “I’m quite awake, Sam. Had a pleasant day? I say, were you sitting on my head?”

      “Was I doing what?” cried Sam. “No, I wasn’t; but you want some one to sit upon you to bring you to your senses. Wake up; I want to talk.”

      Tom tried to rub the last traces of his drowsiness out of his eyes, and now sat up watching his cousin, who, after taking off collar and tie, unfastened his braces, and then, as if moved by a sudden thought,

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