clair boys meant
a double portion of toil and self-denial. Had he not enough to bear
now? But, on the other side, was it not his duty, nay, his privilege,
to help the children if he could? In the end he said to his mother:

"We'll take the little fellows, Mother. I'll do the best I can for
them. We'll manage a corner and a crust for them."

So Danny and Frank Sinclair came to the little cottage. Frank was
eight and Danny six, and they were small and lively and mischievous.
They worshipped Mrs. Duncan, and thought Ernest the finest fellow in
the world. When his birthday came around in March, the two little
chaps put their heads together in a grave consultation as to what they
could give him.

"You know he gave us presents on our birthdays," said Frank. "So we
must give him something."

"I'll div him my pottet-knife," said Danny, taking the somewhat
battered and loose-jointed affair from his pocket, and gazing at it
affectionately.

"I'll give him one of Papa's books," said Frank. "That pretty one with
the red covers and the gold letters."

A few of Mr. Sinclair's books had been saved for the boys, and were
stored in a little box in their room. The book Frank referred to was
an old _History of the Turks_, and its gay cover was probably the best
of it, since its contents were of no particular merit.

On Ernest's birthday both boys gave him their offerings after
breakfast.

"Here's a pottet-knife for you," said Danny graciously. "It's a bully
pottet-knife. It'll cut real well if you hold it dust the wight way.
I'll show you."

"And here's a book for you," said Frank. "It's a real pretty book, and
I guess it's pretty interesting reading too. It's all about the
Turks."

Ernest accepted both gifts gravely, and after the children had gone
out he and his mother had a hearty laugh.

"The dear, kind-hearted little lads!" said Mrs. Duncan. "It must have
been a real sacrifice on Danny's part to give you his beloved
'pottet-knife.' I was afraid you were going to refuse it at first, and
that would have hurt his little feelings terribly. I don't think the
_History of the Turks_ will keep you up burning the midnight oil. I
remember that book of old--I could never forget that gorgeous cover.
Mr. Sinclair lent it to your father once, and he said it was absolute
trash. Why, Ernest, what's the matter?"

Ernest had been turning the book's leaves over carelessly. Suddenly he
sprang to his feet with an exclamation, his face tu