looking-glass! However is Reg to shave?”

It was an heroic effort, and it succeeded. Mrs Cruden’s face lit up at the sound of her son’s voice with its old sunshine, and even Reginald smiled grimly.

“I must let my beard grow,” said he. “But, mother, I say,” and his voice quavered as he spoke, “what a miserable room yours is! I can’t bear to think of your being cooped up there.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Mrs Cruden, cheerily. “The pink in the chintz doesn’t go well with the scarlet in the wall-paper, certainly, but I dare say I shall sleep soundly in the bed all the same.”

“But such a wretched look-out from the window, mother, and such a vile jug and basin!”

Mrs Cruden laughed.

“Never mind about the jug and basin,” said she, “as long as they hold water; and as for the look-out—well, as long as I can see my two boys’ faces happy, that’s the best view I covet.”

“You never think about yourself,” said Reginald, sadly.

“I say, mother,” said Horace, “suppose we call up the spirits from the vasty deep and ask them to get tea ready.”

This practical suggestion met with general approbation, and the little party returned more cheerily to the parlour, where Horace performed marvellous exploits with the bell-handle, and succeeded, in the incredible time of seven minutes, in bringing up a small slipshod girl, who, after a good deal of staring about her, and a critical survey of the pattern of Mrs Cruden’s dress, contrived to gather a general idea of what was required of her.

It was a queer meal, half ludicrous, half despairing, that first little tea-party in Dull Street. They tried to be gay. Reginald declared that the tea his mother poured out was far better than any the footman at Garden Vale used to dispense. Horace tried to make fun of the heterogeneous cups and saucers. Mrs Cruden tried hard to appear as though she was taking a hearty meal, while she tasted nothing. But it was a relief when the girl reappeared and cleared the table.

Then they unpacked their few belongings, and tried to enliven their dreary lodgings with a few precious mementoes of happier days. Finally, worn out in mind and body, they took shelter in bed, and for a blessed season forgot all their misery and forebodings in sleep.

There is no magic equal to that which a night’s sleep will sometimes work. The little party assembled cheerfully at the breakfast-table next morning, prepared to face the day bravely.

A large letter, in Mr Richmond’s handwriting, lay on Mrs Cruden’s plate. It contained three letters—one from the lawyer himself, and one for each of the boys from Wilderham. Mr Richmond’s letter was brief and business-like.

“Dear Madam,—Enclosed please find two letters, which I found lying at Garden Vale yesterday. With regard to balance of your late husband’s assets in your favour, I have an opportunity of investing same at an unusually good rate of interest in sound security. Shall be pleased to wait on you with particulars. Am also in a position to introduce the young gentlemen to a business opening, which, if not at first important, may seem to you a favourable opportunity. On these points I shall have the honour of waiting on you during to-morrow afternoon, and meanwhile beg to remain,—

“Your obedient servant,—

“R. Richmond.”

“We ought to make sure what the investment is,” said Reginald, after hearing the letter read, “before we hand over all our money to him.”

“To be sure, dear,” said Mrs Cruden, who hated the sound of the word investment.

“I wonder what he proposes for us?” said Horace. “Some clerkship, I suppose.”

“Perhaps in his own office,” said Reginald. “What an opening that would be!”

“Never you mind. The law’s very respectable; but I know I’d be no good for that. I might manage to serve tea and raisins behind a grocer’s counter, or run errands, or—”

“Or black boots,” suggested Reginald.

“Black boots! I bet you neither you nor I could black a pair of boots properly to save our lives.”

“It seems to me we shall have to try it this very morning,” said Reginald, “for no one has touched mine since last night.”

“But who are your letters from?” said Mrs Cruden. “Are they very private?”

“Not mine,” said Horace. “It’s from old Harker. You may read it if you like, mother.”

Mrs Cruden took the letter and read aloud,—

“Dear Horrors—”

(“That’s what he calls me, you know,” explained Horace, in a parenthesis.)

“I am so awfully sorry to hear of your new trouble about money matters, and that you will have to leave Garden Vale. I wish I could come over to see you and help you. All the fellows here are awfully cut up about it, and lots of them want me to send you messages. I don’t know what I shall do without you this term, old man, you were always a brick to me. Be sure and write to me and tell me everything. As soon as I can get away for a day I’ll come and see you, and I’ll write as often as I can.

“Your affectionate,—

“T. Harker.

“P.S.—Wilkins, I expect, will be the new monitor in our house. He is sure now to get the scholarship Reg was certain of. I wish to goodness you were both back here.”

“He might just as well have left out that about the scholarship,” said Reginald; “it’s not very cheering news to hear of another fellow stepping into your place like that.”

“I suppose he thought we’d be curious to know,” said Horace.

“Precious curious!” growled Reginald.

“But who’s your letter from, Reg?” asked Mrs Cruden.

“Oh, just a line from Bland,” replied he, hastily putting it into his pocket; “he gives no news.”

If truth must be told, Blandford’s letter was not a very nice one, and Reginald felt it. He did not care to hear it read aloud in contrast with Harker’s warm-hearted letter. Blandford had written,—

“Dear Cruden,—I hope it’s not true about your father’s money going all wrong. It is a great sell, and fellows here, I know, will be very sorry. Never mind, I suppose there’s enough left to make a decent show; and between you and me it would go down awfully well with the fellows here if you could send your usual subscription to the football club. Harker says you’ll have to leave Garden Vale. I’m awfully sorry, as I always enjoyed my visits there so much. What are you going to do? Why don’t you try for the army? The exams are not very hard, my brother told me, and of course it’s awfully respectable, if one must work for one’s living. I must stop now, or I shall miss tennis. Excuse more.

“Yours truly,—

“G. Blandford.”

Reginald knew the letter was a cold and selfish one, but it left two things sticking in his mind which rankled there for a long time. One was that, come what would, he would send a guinea to the school football club. The other was—was it quite out of the question that he should go into the army?

“Awfully rough on Reg,” said Horace, “being so near that scholarship. It’ll be no use to Wilkins, not a bit, and fifty pounds a year would be something to—”

Horace was going to say “us,” but he pulled up in time and said “Reg.”

“Well,” said Reg, “as things have turned out it might have come in useful. I wonder if it wouldn’t have been wiser, mother, for me to have stayed up this term and made sure of it?”

“I wish you could, Reg; but we have no right to think of it. Besides, you could only have held it if you had gone to college.”

“Oh, of course,” said Reg; “but then it would have paid a good bit of my expenses there; and I might have gone on from there to the army, you know, and got my commission.”

Mrs Cruden sighed. What an awakening the boy had still to pass through!

“We must think of something less grand