excitement at the news that I almost felt kindly disposed towards my aunt, who was standing by, although she tried to damp my spirits as much as in her lay.

“You are only throwing away your money, George,” she remarked acidly to my uncle. “He has always shown an ungrateful, thankless disposition; and his bad, undutiful temper will be certain to bring him to ruin!”

“Let us hope not,” replied uncle, placidly. He was a quiet, easy-going business man, employed in the City, and used to let things quietly take their own course, except when sometimes they touched him too keenly to be left unnoticed. He then went on addressing me:

“You will have to be steady and diligent, making the most of your time; and the master will report to me every quarter as to your conduct and zeal in learning.”

“Nice reports they’ll be!” interposed my aunt, mockingly.

“Well, well,” hurriedly concluded Uncle George, to get the thing ended as soon as possible. “Your fortune is all in your own hands, and I hope and trust, if only for your father’s sake, you will turn out well! Remember, that if Dr Hellyer gives a good general report of you at the end of your three years’ term, I’ll try to get you into a City warehouse or office; but if you behave badly, why, you’ll have to shift for yourself, and go your own course, as I shall wash my hands of you!”

There the conversation ended, with an intimation that I was to go to Dr Hellyer’s school in three days’ time.

The interval passed like a whirlwind to me; for not only were my thoughts full of the new life on which I was entering, but there was in addition the very unusual bustle attendant on my being provided with a wardrobe—I for whom anything had been good enough before! My uncle, however, had now made it a sine quâ non that I should be fitted out properly with decent clothes, and, consequently, my aunt was obliged to furnish me with a thorough rig, selected from my Cousin Ralph’s surplus stock. One thing pleased me in this better than all else! It was that, instead of having my outer raiment composed, as previously, of Ralph’s cast-off garments, I was measured for an entirely new suit of my own. This alone was an unexpected gratification; for I hated the fact of my being compelled to wear Ralph’s discarded clothes. It had been gall and wormwood to me. I loathed myself for having to put them on, and loathed him as the malicious instrument that caused me to be so degraded—the more especially as my cousin would in “a friendly sort of way” frequently allude to the circumstance of the clothes having been formerly his, calling attention to my want of care in treating them properly!

All things have an end, fortunately, and the morning arrived at last when I had to bid farewell to the villa on the outskirts of Islington where I had passed so many miserable years. Molly, the servant-maid, was the only one in the house with whom I parted with any regret; and it was with feelings considerably more exultant than sad that I accompanied my uncle to the City in the omnibus which he always took to his place of business, that convenient vehicle passing by in its route the corner of the road where uncle lived.

Arriving at the London Bridge terminus, Uncle George ensconced me and my box in a train, bound for Beachampton, at which retired and out-of-the-way little watering-place was situated Dr Hellyer’s school.

Handing me then my railway ticket and a two-and-sixpenny “tip,” Uncle George gave me a hearty hand-shake, wishing me good-bye and a safe journey.

“Mind you be a good boy, and pay attention to your lessons,” he said. “And—listen, Martin—should you ever be in any serious trouble, you can write and let me know. But mind,” added Uncle George, “you mustn’t forget, my boy, to address your letters to my office, and not to the villa; for your Aunt Matilda might not like the idea, you know, eh!”

“All right, Uncle George,” I answered. “I will remember where to write to, never fear. Good-bye now, and thank you for all your kindness to me.”

“Good-bye, Martin!” he echoed; and, as the train moved slowly out of the station, I really felt quite sorry to part with him; but, as the panting engine proceeded on its way, going faster as it emerged from the labyrinthic terminus on to the open line, dragging the groaning, wheezing, jolting carriages behind it—the clatter of the wheels and rattle of the coupling-chains keeping time with the puffs and pants of escaping steam—my temporary emotion at parting with Uncle George was banished by the exultant feeling of being set free, like a bird let loose from a cage.

I was only conscious that I was flying along to new scenes and new surroundings, where everything would be fresh and novel, and entirely unlike what I had previously been accustomed to at Tapioca Villa.