spent alone in the dark appears. Our poor little friend sobbed until he had no longer any tears to shed. Then he put his head down on his arms, thought of his poor mother, how disappointed she would be to-morrow, how he should very likely lose the prize for which he had so long striven. He wondered if, after all, he had done right. In the midst of these bewildering reflections, too deep for so young a head to bear, Willie fell asleep. Mrs. Millbanks found him in this state, a teardrop hanging on his black lashes, and another trickling down his cheeks. "Poor boy!" she murmured; "he is as cold as a stone. I forgot how bitter the night was. How very inconsiderate I grow." More asleep than awake, she led Willie along the passage to his own room, and did not part with him until she had seen him fairly in bed. O parents, parents, why do you trust your children to the care of harsh masters or frigid old maids? If the usages of society force you to send your boys from the guardianship of your own fireside, why not supply to them as far as possible, in a good motherly mistress, the tenderness and watchfulness they will be sure to miss? The next day Willie was a prisoner to his room; he heard his schoolfellows running up and down stairs as busy as bees, as lively as larks. "It is very cruel of Arthur," he thought; "he might come and speak to me through the door. I wonder if I did right to screen him? I cannot help it now; mother says we should never repent a good action. There she goes, poor thing; how sad and melancholy she looks. I am sure I cannot have done right to vex her." Reader, do not turn with disgust from our mammysick hero. Remember this young boy had neither father, nor sister, nor brother, nor pony to love. Surely he could not be too fond of his widowed mother? The hours passed wearily enough for poor Willie. The boys had nearly all gone. Presently the schoolgates were put wide open by the woman at the lodge, to admit a handsome carriage and pair of horses. By dint of flattening his nose against a pane of glass, and hanging on to the old-fashioned window-sill of his prison, Willie managed to see the Newnhams' footman lift little Mary out. "I wonder if she will ask Arthur about me?" the prisoner thought. "What would he say? Oh, no; why should she? Nobody cares about me." The desolate boy bent his head against the whitewashed wall, and sobbed as if his young heart would break. Fortunately for Willie, there are few materials less breakable than that of which the human heart is composed. A tap at the door came most opportunely, as if to assure him there was still somebody who thought of him. A tiny face peeped cautiously in, then a piece of white pinafore appeared, while a grave little voice asked, "May I come in, Willie ?" Oh, yes, Amy; why do you ask? Who gave you that lovely camellia? It is a greenhouse flower, I should think." “Very likely; Mary Newnham left it for you. She was sorry to hear you were in disgrace. She had made up her mind to engage you for the first quadrille to-morrow night." "Is she not sweetly pretty, Amy? She has such merry blue eyes, and always looks so roguish and full of fun." But, Willie, I do not want to speak about her; I want to ask you, only I am afraid you will be angry." She took his sunburnt hand in her own tiny white ones. "You wont be angry; will you?" "I never am with you, Amy." "I wish, dear Willie, you would ask mamma to forgive you. I am sure she would, if she thought you really sorry. Oh, if you had seen your own poor mamma cry this morning, when she heard what a bad boy you had been." "I am not a bad boy," he replied, indignantly. "I would tell you the whole truth, Amy, only—. only I am afraid you would tell your mamma, and get poor Before Willie could confide in his sympathizing little friend, Mrs. Millbanks entered the room. She had overheard his last observation; it was a clue to much that perplexed her. Proceeding on the pitchpot system,* she said— *The anecdote of the pitchpot is this. A quaker of kindly disposition purchased a new pitchpot. His neigh The boy was thrown off his guard. "Did Arthur tell you so, ma'am?" Mrs. Millbanks was too honourable to deceive even a child. She dealt out to her pupils the same measure of truth she expected from them. She told Willie frankly that he had himself let out his secret. She spoke to him seriously of the folly of screening his friend from what would have been a useful lesson to him, and the sin of acting a lie. But Willie's earnest pleadings for his friend were irresistible. Mrs. Millbanks considered that he had already suffered more than enough for the fault of another; and as she saw the only way to make him really happy again was to promise not to recur to the matter, a compromise was effected, the caricature put into the fire,' Arthur's fault overlooked, and a promise extracted from Willie that he would not again take the consequences of his friend's misdeeds upon himself. 66 bours were constantly borrowing it. One day when he required it for his own use he forgot where it had last been lent. On his way in search of the missing article he met one of his neighbours. Friend," said he, "thou hast my pitchpot; hast thou finished with it ?" The man, who had already had it two months in his possession, astonished by the abruptness of the attack, replied, 66 Friend, thou shalt have it back to-night, and thank thee for the loan of it." CHAPTER II. How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, A worm! a god! .. O what a miracle to man is man. EDWARD YOUNG. "THE bell strikes one; we take no thought of time but from its loss.' Who could have thought it was so late?" our friend Willie soliloquized. "Dear old mother, I must finish my letter before I go to bed, then I can get it in by the early post to-morrow-to-day, I mean. I cannot think how it is chaps find writing home such a bore; they cannot have parents like mine, that's clear enough." A knock at the door. Oh, bother it; who can want to see me this time of night?" с |