o elicit a rebuff so hearty and
unmistakable that for a week he was the laughing stock of the village.
There was no mistake this time as to what "no" meant; his admiration
turned to a hatred almost as intense, and he went faster "to the bad"
than ever.

It was Bessy's little brother who sat by him on the stile; "Beauty
Bill," as he was called, from the large share he possessed of the
family good looks. The lad was one of those people who seem born to be
favourites. He was handsome, and merry, and intelligent; and, being
well brought up, was well-conducted and amiable--the pride and pet of
the village. Why did Mother Muggins of the shop let the goody side of
her scales of justice drop the lower by one lollipop for Bill than for
any other lad, and exempt him by unwonted smiles from her general
anathema on the urchin race? There were other honest boys in the
parish, who paid for their treacle-sticks in sterling copper of the
realm! The very roughs of the village were proud of him, and would
have showed their good nature in ways little to his benefit had not
his father kept a somewhat severe watch upon his habits and conduct.
Indeed, good parents and a strict home counterbalanced the evils of
popularity with Beauty Bill, and, on the whole, he was little spoilt,
and well deserved the favour he met with. It was under cover of
friendly patronage that his companion was now detaining him; but, all
the circumstances considered, Bill felt more suspicious than
gratified, and wished Bully Tom anywhere but where he was.

The man threw out one leg before him like the pendulum of a clock.

"Night school's opened, eh?" he inquired; and back swung the pendulum
against Bill's shins.

"Yes;" and the boy screwed his legs on one side.

"You don't go, do you?"

"Yes, I do," said Bill, trying not to feel ashamed of the fact,
"Father can't spare me to the day-school now, so our Bessy persuaded
him to let me go at nights."

Bully Tom's face looked a shade darker, and the pendulum took a swing
which it was fortunate the lad avoided; but the conversation continued
with every appearance of civility.

"You come back by Yew-lane, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Why, there's no one lives your way but old Johnson; you must come
back alone?"

"Of course, I do," said Bill, beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"It must be dark now before school looses?" was the next inquiry; and
the boy's discomfort increased, he hardly knew why, as he answered