ked to pieces. Eight months
on the island. Rescued by American barque. Fate of other boats
unknown. Will be home within a couple of weeks.'"

"Why, it sounds like _Robinson Crusoe_, sir, don't it? which I read when
I was quite a gurl, but I don't believe it myself though they do say
it's all true. Young Mr Leather will be glad to 'ear the good noos of
'is friend--"

"But this is _not_ good news of his friend; it is only uncertain news,"
interrupted the old gentleman quickly. "Now I think of it, Mrs Bland,
Mr Leather is to call here by appointment this very morning, so you
must be particularly careful not to say a word to him about this
telegram, or Captain Stride, or anything I have told you about the lost
ship--you understand, Mrs Bland?"

"Certainly, sir," said the housekeeper, somewhat hurt by the doubt thus
implied as to the capacity of her understanding. "Shall I bring you
some more toast, sir?" she added, with the virtuous feeling that by this
question she was returning good for evil.

"No, thank you. Now, Mrs Bland, don't forget. Not a word about this
to any one."

"'Ooks an' red-'ot pincers wouldn't draw a syllable out of _me_, sir,"
returned the good woman, departing with an offended air, and leaving her
master to understand that, in her opinion, such instruments might have a
very different effect upon _him_.

"Ass that I was to speak of it to her at all," muttered Mr Crossley,
walking up and down the room with spectacles on forehead, and with both
hands in his trousers-pockets creating disturbance among the keys and
coppers. "I might have known that she could not hold her tongue. It
would never do to let Mrs Brooke remain on the tenter-hooks till Stride
comes home to clear the matter up. Poor Mrs Brooke! No wonder she is
almost broken down. This hoping against hope is so wearing. And she's
so lonely. To be sure, sweet May Leather runs out and in like a beam of
sunshine; but it must be hard, very hard, to lose an only son in this
way. It would be almost better to know that he was dead. H'm! and
there's that good-for-nothing Shank. The rascal! and yet he's not
absolutely good for nothing--if he would only give up drink. Well,
while there's life there's hope, thank God! I'll give him another
trial."

The old man's brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these
mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance
as he gave vent to the last expression.

Jus