atholic. He was a bit of a
naturalist, learned in the lore of woods and fields, and he liked to
talk about books, and he liked to talk about his home. Simple John
would sooner hear Caesar talk than listen to the heavenly choir. So it
came to pass that once a week at least the boys would stroll down the
avenue at Orley Farm (where Anthony Trollope's sad boyhood was passed),
or take the Northwick Walk, which winds through meadows to the Bridge,
or visit John Lyon's farm at Preston, or, getting signed for Bill,
attempt a longer ramble to Ruislip Reservoir, or Oxhey Wood, or
Headstone with its moated grange, or Horsington Hill with its
long-stretching view across the Uxbridge plain.

Very soon it became the natural thing for Caesar to give John a
glimpse, at least, of whatever floated in and out of his mind. John,
being himself a creature of reserves, could not quite understand
this unlocking of doors, but he appreciated his privileges. Caesar's
ingenuousness, sympathy, and impulsiveness, seemed the more
enchanting because John himself was of the look-before-you-leap,
think-before-you-speak, sort. One Sunday evening they were hurrying
back to Chapel, when they passed a woman carrying a heavy child. The
poor creature appeared to be almost fainting with fatigue and possibly
hunger. Her pinched face, her bent figure, her thin garments, bespoke
a passionate protest against conditions which obviously she was
powerless to avert or control. The boys glanced at her with pitying
eyes as they passed. Then Desmond said quickly--

"I say, Jonathan, she looks as if she was going to fall down."

John, seeing what was in his friend's mind, said--

"We must hurry up, or we shall miss Chapel."

They offered the woman sixpences, and blushes, because through the
tattered shawl might be seen a shrunken bosom.

The woman stared, stammered, and burst into tears.

"We shall miss Chapel," John repeated.

"Hang Chapel," said Desmond.

He was looking at the child. When the woman took the silver, she let
the child slip to the ground, where it lay inert.

"What's the matter with it?" said Desmond.

Half sobbing, the woman explained that the child had sprained its ankle.

"I'm just about done," she gasped; "an' the sight o' you two young
gen'lemen runnin' up the 'ill finished me. I ain't the leaky sort,"
she added fiercely, still gasping and trembling.

Then she bent down and tried to lift the heavy child, which moaned
feebl