erulous
complaining and fretfulness whose display was reserved for her own
family only.

To this Ned was so accustomed that it passed ever his head almost
unheeded; not so her constant allusions to his father. Wholly
unconscious of the agony which it inflicted upon the boy, Mrs. Sankey
was incessantly quoting his opinions or utterances.

"Ned, I do wish you would not fidget with your feet. You know your dear
father often told you of it;" or, "As your dear father used to say,
Ned;" until the boy in despair would throw down his book and rush out
of the room to calm himself by a run in the frosty night air; while Mrs.
Sankey would murmur to herself, "That boy's temper gets worse and worse,
and with my poor nerves how am I to control him?"

Mr. Porson was very kind to him in those days. During that summer
holiday he had very frequently spent the evening at Captain Sankey's,
and had formed a pretty correct idea of the character of Ned's mother.
Thus when he saw that Ned, when he entered the school after breakfast or
dinner, had an anxious hunted look, and was clearly in a state of high
tension, he guessed he was having a bad time of it at home.

Charlie had fast got over the shock of his father's death; children
quickly recover from a blow, and, though delicate, Charlie was of a
bright and gentle disposition, ready to be pleased at all times, and not
easily upset.

One morning when Ned came in from school looking pale and white, gave
random answers to questions, and even, to the astonishment of the class,
answered Mr. Porson himself snappishly, the master, when school was over
and the boys were leaving their places, said:

"Sankey, I want to have a few words with you in the study."

Ned followed his master with an air of indifference. He supposed that
he was going to be lectured for the way he had spoken, but as he said to
himself, "What did it matter! what did anything matter!"

Mr. Porson did not sit down on entering the room, but when Ned had
closed the door after him took a step forward and laid his hand on his
shoulder.

"My boy," he said, "what is it that is wrong with you? I fear that you
have trouble at home."

Ned stood silent, but the tears welled up into his eyes.

"It can't be helped, sir," he said in a choking voice, and then with
an attempt at gayety: "it will be all the same fifty years hence, I
suppose."

"That is a poor consolation, Ned," Mr. Porson rejoined. "Fifty years is
a long time to lo