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lump that may be a tumour,” said Paul. “But Dr. Ansell was going to write you a letter.”

      “Ah, yes!” replied the doctor, drawing the letter from his pocket. He was very friendly, affable, busy, kind. He would come to Sheffield the next day.

      “What is your father?” he asked.

      “He is a coal-miner,” replied Paul.

      “Not very well off, I suppose?”

      “This—I see after this,” said Paul.

      “And you?” smiled the doctor.

      “I am a clerk in Jordan's Appliance Factory.”

      The doctor smiled at him.

      “Er—to go to Sheffield!” he said, putting the tips of his fingers together, and smiling with his eyes. “Eight guineas?”

      “Thank you!” said Paul, flushing and rising. “And you'll come to-morrow?”

      “To-morrow—Sunday? Yes! Can you tell me about what time there is a train in the afternoon?”

      “There is a Central gets in at four-fifteen.”

      “And will there be any way of getting up to the house? Shall I have to walk?” The doctor smiled.

      “There is the tram,” said Paul; “the Western Park tram.”

      The doctor made a note of it.

      “Thank you!” he said, and shook hands.

      Then Paul went on home to see his father, who was left in the charge of Minnie. Walter Morel was getting very grey now. Paul found him digging in the garden. He had written him a letter. He shook hands with his father.

      “Hello, son! Tha has landed, then?” said the father.

      “Yes,” replied the son. “But I'm going back to-night.”

      “Are ter, beguy!” exclaimed the collier. “An' has ter eaten owt?”

      “No.”

      “That's just like thee,” said Morel. “Come thy ways in.”

      The father was afraid of the mention of his wife. The two went indoors. Paul ate in silence; his father, with earthy hands, and sleeves rolled up, sat in the arm-chair opposite and looked at him.

      “Well, an' how is she?” asked the miner at length, in a little voice.

      “She can sit up; she can be carried down for tea,” said Paul.

      “That's a blessin'!” exclaimed Morel. “I hope we s'll soon be havin' her whoam, then. An' what's that Nottingham doctor say?”

      “He's going to-morrow to have an examination of her.”

      “Is he beguy! That's a tidy penny, I'm thinkin'!”

      “Eight guineas.”

      “Eight guineas!” the miner spoke breathlessly. “Well, we mun find it from somewhere.”

      “I can pay that,” said Paul.

      There was silence between them for some time.

      “She says she hopes you're getting on all right with Minnie,” Paul said.

      “Yes, I'm all right, an' I wish as she was,” answered Morel. “But Minnie's a good little wench, bless 'er heart!” He sat looking dismal.

      “I s'll have to be going at half-past three,” said Paul.

      “It's a trapse for thee, lad! Eight guineas! An' when dost think she'll be able to get as far as this?”

      “We must see what the doctors say to-morrow,” Paul said.

      Morel sighed deeply. The house seemed strangely empty, and Paul thought his father looked lost, forlorn, and old.

      “You'll have to go and see her next week, father,” he said.

      “I hope she'll be a-whoam by that time,” said Morel.

      “If she's not,” said Paul, “then you must come.”

      “I dunno wheer I s'll find th' money,” said Morel.

      “And I'll write to you what the doctor says,” said Paul.

      “But tha writes i' such a fashion, I canna ma'e it out,” said Morel.

      “Well, I'll write plain.”

      It was no good asking Morel to answer, for he could scarcely do more than write his own name.

      The doctor came. Leonard felt it his duty to meet him with a cab. The examination did not take long. Annie, Arthur, Paul, and Leonard were waiting in the parlour anxiously. The doctors came down. Paul glanced at them. He had never had any hope, except when he had deceived himself.

      “It MAY be a tumour; we must wait and see,” said Dr. Jameson.

      “And if it is,” said Annie, “can you sweal it away?”

      “Probably,” said the doctor.

      Paul put eight sovereigns and half a sovereign on the table. The doctor counted them, took a florin out of his purse, and put that down.

      “Thank you!” he said. “I'm sorry Mrs. Morel is so ill. But we must see what we can do.”

      “There can't be an operation?” said Paul.

      The doctor shook his head.

      “No,” he said; “and even if there could, her heart wouldn't stand it.”

      “Is her heart risky?” asked Paul.

      “Yes; you must be careful with her.”

      “Very risky?”

      “No—er—no, no! Just take care.”

      And the doctor was gone.

      Then Paul carried his mother downstairs. She lay simply, like a child. But when he was on the stairs, she put her arms round his neck, clinging.

      “I'm so frightened of these beastly stairs,” she said.

      And he was frightened, too. He would let Leonard do it another time. He felt he could not carry her.

      “He thinks it's only a tumour!” cried Annie to her mother. “And he can sweal it away.”

      “I KNEW he could,” protested Mrs. Morel scornfully.

      She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ash off his coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It was so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The long grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness of the chimney.

      The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early in the morning, and they were alone.

      “You won't fret, my boy!” she said.

      “No, mother.”

      “No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself.”

      “Yes,” he answered. Then, after a while: “And I shall come next Saturday, and shall bring my father?”

      “I suppose he wants to come,” she replied. “At any rate, if he does you'll have to let him.”

      He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gently, tenderly, as if she were a lover.

      “Shan't you be late?” she murmured.

      “I'm going,” he said, very low.

      Still he sat a few minutes, stroking the brown and grey hair from her temples.

      “And you won't be any worse, mother?”

      “No, my son.”

      “You

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