Grace flashed vivid
curiosity, Jael's open orbs were fixed with admiration and awe upon his
supernatural cleverness.

He now drew some more arabesques on the remaining part of the board,
and told Miss Carden she must follow those outlines with the saw, and he
would examine her work on Monday morning. He then went off with a quick,
independent air, as one whose every minute was gold.

"If you please, miss," said Jael, "is he a real working man, or only a
gentleman as makes it his pastime?"

"A gentleman! What an idea! Of course he is a working man. But a very
superior person."

"To be sure," continued Jael, not quite convinced, "he don't come up to
Squire Raby; but, dear heart, he have a grander way with him than most
of the Hillsborough gentlefolks as calls here."

"Nonsense!" said Grace, authoritatively. "Look at his nails."

Henry came twice a week, and his pupil made remarkable progress. She was
deferential, attentive, enthusiastic.

By degrees the work led to a little conversation; and that, in due
course, expanded into a variety of subjects; and the young lady, to
her surprise, found her carver well-read in History and Sciences, and
severely accurate in his information, whereas her own, though abundant,
was rather loose.

One day she expressed her surprise that he could have found time to be
so clever with his fingers and yet cultivate his mind.

"Well," said he, "I was lucky enough to have a good mother. She taught
me all she knew, and she gave me a taste for reading; and that has been
the making of me; kept me out of the public-house, for one thing."

"Ah! you WERE fortunate. I lost my mother, sir, when I was but eight
years old."

"Oh dear, that was a bad job," said Henry brusquely but kindly.

"A very bad job," said Grace, smiling; but the next moment she suddenly
turned her fair head away and tears stole down her cheeks.

Henry looked very sorry, and Jael, without moving, looked at Grace, and
opened those sluices, her eyes, and two big drops of sympathy rolled
down her comely face in a moment.

That day, when young Little shut the street-door of "Woodbine Villa" and
stepped into the road, a sort of dull pain seemed to traverse his chest.
It made his heart ache a little, this contrast of the sweet society
he had left and the smoky town toward which he now turned his face. He
seemed to be ejected from Paradise for the next five days. It was Monday
yet he wished the next day was Saturday, and the