t bitter, a most sad and humiliating
fall.

Eleven months had passed since John Heedman first called in the doctor;
he had lingered so long, but now the end was very near. He would not
hear of Charlie staying away from his work, although Mr. Carlton had
kindly offered to let him have a few days at home.

One evening when Charlie came in from work his mother gave him a letter.
"You had better go straight to the post with it," she said, afraid that
he would put off. "Your father is very anxious it should go by
to-night's post. Now, Charlie, _do_ take care," she said, anxiously.

Charlie's good opinion of himself--his pride--was touched.

"I wish, mother, you wouldn't talk to me as if you thought I didn't know
what I was about," he said, in an angry tone, slamming the door after
him as he went out. He had not gone far when he met Bob White, who was
going with a note from the clergyman to get some books out of the
library. "Come with me," said Bob, "and we'll have a look through the
books."

"I've got to go to the post office," said Charlie, "but there's time
enough yet; I'll go with you." He argued with himself, "What's the use
of putting the letter in ever so long before post-time if it won't go a
bit the quicker." He was in an irritable humour, angry to think that
_he_ should have been doubted. If he had been like Tom Brown, or Joe
Denton, or any of those careless fellows, it would have been a different
thing.

Arrived at the library, both the boys were soon interested in looking
over the books, and the time flew rapidly. "I'll just glance at these,"
thought Charlie, taking out two more with very attractive titles, "and
then I must be off to the post."

Charlie took up a third, determined that it _should_ be the last, when
Bob said, "I think you had better inquire how the time goes."

"It's nothing like time for the post to close yet, is it, sir?" he asked
of the librarian.

"It only wants three minutes to the time; it is not possible for you to
save it, I am afraid."

Charlie dashed down the broad steps and along the streets as hard as he
could run; but he was too late, the post had just gone, and he was
obliged to drop the letter into the empty box. He walked slowly home,
out of breath and out of temper, hoping no questions would be asked. "I
don't see why I should say it was too late unless I'm asked," he argued,
shrinking from confessing to his mother that she was justified in
doubting him. Nothing was s