day. I cut off half-a-dozen good slices, put them between two hot dishes with some vegetable, and sent them to the Cornish folk. They were very grateful, the servant said, when she returned, and the dishes were brought back by the little boy, with "Father's much obliged, and it did him a world of good." One day a box of flowers came from the country, so I made up a nosegay and sent it across to the poor wasted-looking care-taker. This brought the woman, with tears in her eyes, to thank me.

"My husband he do like to smell a flower, ma'am," she said. "It's many a day now since he has seen them growing in the ground." Then I asked her if I might go and see him sometimes, or perhaps he would like a paper and some books now and then? The woman's face brightened. "He would be pleased, ma'am, indeed," she said." "It's long since any one went to talk to him, and I often think it's dull for him. I doubt if I have him much longer," she added, simply; "and it's likely you can feel for me, ma'am."

So I went over to see Mr Lobb. He was sitting by the fire, warming his long thin hands.

"I am glad to see you, ma'am," he said, with the almost perfect manner one sometimes finds among working people who have not lived much in towns. "I would have come over to thank you for your kindness, but feared you might think it a liberty. I spend most of my time trying to keep warm by a bit of fire."

He was very simple and kindly. He knew that he was going to die, and faced it like a man. He spoke of it without fear or affectation. "It worries me to think of the wife and children," he said. "A man should not marry as I

did, with nothing put by. I subscribed to a club, of course, and it's kept us from starving, and it'll bury me, but that's all. I ought to have saved before I married, and so ought every man. One is always so sure one is going to live when one feels strong. Well, God is good, and He'll take care of them," he added with a sigh, and a month later in that simple faith he died.

Then it became a question of what was to be done with the widow and children. The woman was delicate; there was the skinny baby, a little girl of six called Gracie, and Thomas,-they always called him by his full old-fashioned name, -who was ten, or barely ten.

"I would like to stay in London; there's more going on, and I'd be more likely to get something," the poor woman said, when a proposal was made to send her back to her native place. "They be very poor in Cornwall where I come from; it would be no good going back; father and mother are dead, and there was only one other of us, my brother Joe, and he went off to Melbourne long ago."

"Couldn't you send to him?" I asked; "he might do something for you."

"I have sent ma'am," she answered; "but I don't know if he's got the letter. We never kept much count of his address, for he never had the same one long together. I don't expect he'd be able to do much; he was never much of a hand at helping himself, let alone others."

So we got together a little money and bought her a mangle. She went to live in two rooms close by, and just kept soul and body together for herself and children by mangling and occasionally going out to work.

Suddenly one day my housemaid went off without a moment's notice to her mother who was ill, and poor Mrs Lobb was unable to come and help us on account of her baby. "I can't bear to refuse," the poor thing said, "but the little baby is that bad with bronchitus, I doubt if I keep it through the winter."

Then it was that Thomas first came into our lives. I had hardly noticed him before, except as a little dark-haired boy too small for his age. The morning after Jane went, I was told he wanted to see me. I remember the interview as well as if it were yesterday. I was in the dining-room when he knocked. "Come in," I said, and in came Thomas. He stepped just inside and pulled his front hair. Evidently he had been instructed that that was the correct way of making a bow.

"Please, mum," he said shyly, "mother says as how you have no housemaid, so I came to ask if you would like me to help a bit."

"You, Thomas !

"Please, mum, I does for mother, sweeps and scrubs and dusts and washes up the things. Mother said I was to tell you I could clean knives and boots beautiful." He looked down as he said the last words, as though he felt ashamed at praising himself, and nothing but necessity would have driven him to do it.

"Why, you have quite a list of accomplishments, Thomas," I answered, and laughed, but he was evidently very anxious.

"Or I could take care of the children - the young ladies, I mean "he said, correcting himself; then perhaps nurse could help." He was quite a manager, and had evidently thought out how matters could be arranged so as to make the best of things.

"I

am used to children. I have always taken care of ours," he added gravely, and the "ours" showed that he did not put himself on a level with his sister; "and I have pushed a perambulator often for Mrs Hicks, the grocer's wife, since her husband has been laid up, and her in the shop." I thought how funny he would look pushing my two babies along with one hand, and with the other holding little May, as she toddled beside him, and wondered what my most kind but proper mother-in-law would say if she met them. My motherin-law always kept me well in hand, and does still, though I am getting to be an old woman. There is one thing I simply dread her finding out, but that will appear byand-by.

"Well, no, Thomas, I don't think we can make you headnurse,' ," I said. "But you can come in the morning and clean the knives and boots. You are quite sure 'you can do them beautiful.''

66

Yes, quite sure, mum," he answered, looking up with his great dark eyes.

He

So Thomas came every day, and was the comfort of my life. was very quiet and attentive. When he carried in the coals he always looked round to see if there were letters to post or anything he could do; he always saw when my plants wanted watering or the leaves wanted washing. Even cook, who was difficult to please, said he "was a downright blessing." only vexing thing was the whenever he had a chance he would creep up to the nursery and play with the children. He adored May, and used to carry her up-stairs when she came in from her walk. She was delighted to let him do it, putting her arms round his neck, and looking up at him with her

The

to

"Bought it, mum." "But you are not going smoke, I hope?" He tried hard not to laugh, but the idea of smoking was too much for him.

"Please, mum, I bought it to teach miss May how to blow bubbles," he said, with as grand an air as if he had bought it to teach her Arabic.

Another week, and Jane returned. Thomas got a place at a paper-shop, and carried out papers every morning; but on Saturday afternoons he generally paid cook a visit, and went up to see the children. One day I discovered that he had a voice. Going past the nursery door, I heard May say"Yes, do sing it again, please, Thomas," and then a weak little voice began―

"A little seed is in the ground,
A little tiny seed;

When it grows up what will it be,
A flower or a weed?"

I opened the door. "Why, Thomas," I said, "I didn't know you could sing."

"Please, mum, mother taught me," he said; "she sings beautiful, and so do little Gracie."

Then that time came in which May fell ill. There was hardly a hope of her recovery. And through all those sad days none grieved more than Thomas. Every morning, as soon as cook came down, she heard a tap at the kitchen window, and there stood Thomas at

the bottom of the area steps, pale and anxious. She used to open the window, and before she could speak the eager voice would say—

"How is miss May ?-is she any worse-has she slept? And on that terrible night when we thought she was dying, Thomas sat at the end of the kitchen by the sidetable white and silent, waiting with burning eyes and a breathless misery that almost seemed to suffocate him. Late that night Jane went down and reported, "The doctor says she is a little better." Thomas sprang to his feet for one moment, then sat down again, and resting his face on his arm on the table sobbed bitterly at last.

When May was better, Thomas was taken up to see her. He stopped for a moment outside her door as if to gather strength, and felt his side-pocket anxiously: there was something there that bulged, but I pretended not to see it. drew a long breath as he entered her room.

He

"Are you better, miss May?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Thomas, dear," she said.

"You've been very bad," and he shook his head mournfully.

"Poor Thomas !" she sighed, just as if she knew all that he had suffered.

"I don't know what we should have done if you hadn't got better, miss May."

"Do you know any more songs?" she asked. He shook his head: he had had no heart for songs.

"I kept your garden in order," he said; "the primroses are coming up, and there's three snowdrops out."

"I am so glad. What's that in your pocket, sticking out?"

"It's the mice," he answered, smiling for the first time. "I've had' em this fortnight ready against

you was better, miss May," and then with a sigh of satisfaction he brought them out.

A little later in the spring brought us the last of Thomas. May was well. The gardener had just been to see about doing up the garden. I was sitting in the dining-room making up my books with the weekly expenses, wondering how it was that something extra always swelled them. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," I said, and in came Thomas of course.

"Please, mum, I'm come to say good-bye," he said, pulling his front hair as usual.

"Good-bye! why, where are you going???

"Going to Australia, mum." I was quite astonished. "Has your uncle sent for you?" "No, mum; but there's a gentleman who's been coming on and off to our shop a good deal, and he's captain of a ship. I always wanted to go about a bit, and he's offered to take me free for my work, and bring me back or drop me in Melbourne, which I like. I think it's a good thing, mum," he added, in his old-fashioned way. “I don't see that I can come to much good at a paper-shop."

No, Thomas, perhaps not." "And I wants to get on and help mother," he said, lifting his face and looking at me proudly. "Perhaps I might come across uncle out at Melbourne; and anyhow I'll know more, and have seen more, when I have been there and back, than I do now. The gentleman that's taking me, too, says the sea will make me strong and set me off growing. I shan't be any good if I'm not strong."

"Perhaps you are right." "It's hard work leaving mother," he said with a little gasp. "But she's keen on my going, because

she thinks I might meet uncle, but I don't like leaving of her, and I don't like leaving the two little 'uns." The tears came into his clear eyes, but he struggled manfully to keep them back; and then he added, "And I don't like leaving miss May. I couldn't ha' gone if she hadn't been better."

"And when do you start?" "To-morrow, mum; it's very sudden-like, but they say chances always is. I came to say good-bye. May I go up to the young ladies?" I took him up to the nursery myself. He looked at the children with the face of one who had suddenly grown older and knew much, and was going to know more. explained all about his journey to them, and why he was going, just as if they had been old enough to understand, and then he gravely and sorrowfully shook hands with them all three and with nurse.

He

"I don't wan't you to go," May said. "I want you to stay here. When will you come back?"

"I don't know when, but I'll come, miss May; never fear but I'll come back. Your garden is all in order,” he added. "Maybe the gardener will look after it a bit now." They followed him, the three children and nurse, to the head of the stairs, and stood looking through and over the banisters.

Good-bye, good-bye," called May and the others, watching him descend.

"Good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye," and suddenlyMay's little shoe, which was unbuttoned, fell through the railing on to the stairs beneath, touching him as it fell.

"It's good luck," nurse called out. "It's real good luck, Thomas; she dropped her shoe after you." He picked it up and looked at it,

a little old shoe, with a hole nearly through at the toe.

"Please, mum, may I keep it?" he asked, with a smile, and when I nodded, he looked up at her with a satisfied face. "I'll take it. Miss May, I'm going to keep it. It'll go all the way with me in the ship." He stopped in the hall, and turned round. "Please, mum," he said, and pulled his hair once more, "I want to say Thank you for all your kindness to us. You's allays been a good friend to us," he added approvingly.

"And you have been a good boy, Thomas," I answered gratefully, “and I know that you'll be one still."

"I'll try, for mother's sake, and yours, and miss May's," he said, and strode sturdily towards the street door.

"You must shake hands with me too, Thomas," I said, and gave him a sovereign. He took the gold in silence, turning it over in surprise, as if to be sure that it was real. He looked such a baby while he did so that I wondered if the captain of the ship had taken a fancy to his pale face and sad eyes, or what hard work he thought those small hands could do. Poor little Thomas, going alone to the other side of the world, leaving all

he cared for here, my heart went out to him. Did not his mother bear him with the same pains that I had borne my children? Had she not once looked at him with the strange wonder that I had looked at my first little one? And now her heart would ache whenever a wind swept by, and she thought of the little lad at sea, trying to get strong in order to take care of her by-and-by. thought of how he had sat and sobbed the night he heard that May was better, of how I had seen his father lying dead with the surprised smile on his face, as though he had seen the heavenly_city— what would he say now, I wondered, if he could see his little son starting alone out into the world?

I

"Good-bye, dear little lad," I said. "May you grow strong, and be a brave and good man," and I stooped and kissed him. Thomas said not a word; but I knew that he was crying, as he strode towards the door.

Mrs Lobb got on pretty well after her boy went. But sorrow overtook her again: the poor skinny little baby died. Life could never have been a joy to it. Surely it was a blessing in disguise when death took it?

Eighteen years had gone by. The Lobbs had passed altogether out of my life. Thomas had never come back. I heard that he had found his uncle in Melbourne, and had gone with him to Graham's Town, in South Africa. From there the uncle had sent for Mrs Lobb and Gracie, and that was the last I knew of them, or ever expected to know.

I had given up the house in

which we had lived so long in England, and settled at Lutry, near Lausanne, where living and education were cheaper than in England. There the years slipped away peacefully enough till the three girls were grown up-till May was a woman of three-and-twenty. She was a pretty girl, just as she had been a pretty child, and at threeand-twenty looked eighteen,—a tall slim girl, with golden hair and