the corner where Charles was coolly
sponging his face and chest over a basin. "In a moment, ma'am!" said
he, looking up with a twinkle in his eye as the boys made way for
her.

She read the meaning of it and smiled at her own mistake as she drew
back the hand she had put out to take the sponge from him. He was
her youngest, and she had seen him but twice since, at the age of
eight, he had left home for Westminster School. In spite of the
evidence of her eyes he was a small child still--until his voice
warned her.

She drew back her hand at once. Boys scorn any show of feeling, even
between mother and son; and Charles should not be ridiculed on her
account. So he sponged away and she waited, remembering how she had
taught him, when turned a year old, to cry softly after a whipping.
Ten children she had brought up in a far Lincolnshire parsonage, and
without sparing the rod; but none had been allowed to disturb their
father in his study where he sat annotating the Scriptures or turning
an heroic couplet or adding up his tangled household accounts.

A boy pushed through the group around the basin, with news that
Butcher Randall had come-to from his swoon and wished to shake hands:
and almost before Charles could pick up a towel and dry himself the
fallen champion appeared with a somewhat battered grin.

"No malice," he mumbled: "nasty knock--better luck next time."

"Come, I say!" protested Charles, shaking hands and pulling a mock
face, "Is there going to be a next time?"

"Well, you don't suppose I'm _convinced_--" Randall began: but Mrs.
Wesley broke in with a laugh.

"There's old England for you!" She brought her mittened palms
together as if to clap them, but they rested together in the very
gesture of prayer. "'Won't be convinced,' you say? but oh, when it's
done you are worth it! Nay--don't hide your face, sir! Wounds for
an honest belief are not shameful, and I can only hope that in your
place my son would have shown so fair a temper."

"Whe-ew!" one of the taller boys whistled. "It's Wesley's mother!"

"She was watching, too: the last two rounds at any rate. I saw her."

"And I."

"--And so cool it might have been a dog-fight in Tuttle Fields.
Your servant, ma'am!" The speaker made her a boyish bow and lifted
his voice: "Three cheers for Mrs. Wesley!"

They were given--the first two with a will. The third tailed off;
and Mrs. Wesley, looking about her, laughed again as the boys,
sudden