r sulkily, he was wanted in the foreman's office.

He went in, and there was a lovely girl of eighteen, who looked at him
with undisguised curiosity, and addressed him thus: "Sir, is it you that
carve wood so beautifully?"

Henry blushed, and hesitated; and that made the young lady blush herself
a very little, and she said, "I wished to take lessons in carving."
Then, as he did not reply, she turned to Mr. Bayne. "But perhaps he
objects to teach other people?"

"WE should object to his teaching other workmen," said the foreman;
"but," turning to Henry, "there is no harm in your giving her a lesson
or two, after hours. You will want a set of the tools, miss?"

"Of course I shall. Please put them into the carriage; and--when will he
come and teach me, I wonder? for I am wild to begin."

Henry said he could come Saturday afternoon, or Monday morning early.

"Whichever you please," said the lady, and put down her card on the
desk; then tripped away to her carriage, leaving Henry charmed with her
beauty and ease.

He went home to his mother, and told her he was to give lessons to the
handsomest young lady he had ever seen. "She has bought the specimen
tools too; so I must forge some more, and lose no time about it."

"Who is she, I wonder?"

"Here is her card. 'Miss Carden, Woodbine Villa, Heath Hill.'"

"Carden!" said the widow. Then, after a moment's thought, "Oh, Henry,
don't go near them. Ah, I knew how it would be. Hillsborough is not like
London. You can't be long hid in it."

"Why, what is the matter? Do you know the lady?"

"Oh, yes. Her papa is director of an insurance company in London. I
remember her being born very well. The very day she was christened--her
name is Grace--you were six years old, and I took you to her
christening; and oh, Harry, my brother is her godfather. Don't you
go near that Grace Carden; don't visit any one that knew us in better
days."

"Why, what have we to be ashamed of?" said Henry. "'Tisn't as if we
sat twiddling our thumbs and howling, 'We have seen better days.' And
'tisn't as if we asked favors of anybody. For my part I don't care who
knows I am here, and can make three hundred a year with my own hands
and wrong no man. I'd rather be a good workman in wood and steel than an
arrogant old fool like your b--. No, I won't own him for yours or mine
either--call him Raby. Well, I wouldn't change places with him, nor any
of his sort: I'm a British workman, and worth a dozen R