every
night for a week and work my fingers to the bone."

"God forbid!" said Percival. "He shall have no more from me. But be
generous, and promise me that if you _should_ want help, such as my
poverty can give, you will forget old times and come to me."

"No, I won't promise that. I will remember them and come." She caught
his hand, pressed it one moment in her own, flung it from her and
escaped.

"Judith!" he called after her, but she was gone.

Percival went into his own room. The money had come just in time, for
his landlady's weekly account was lying on the table. He looked at the
three coins with lingering tenderness, and after a moment's hesitation
he took one of them and vowed that he would never part with it. Yet in
the midst of his ardent resolution he smiled rather bitterly to think
that it was not the sovereign, but one of the halves, he meant to keep
for ever. Poverty had taught him many lessons, and among them how to
combine economy and sentiment. "If she had given me the ten shillings'
worth of silver, I suppose I should have saved the threepenny bit!" he
said to himself as he locked his little remembrance in his desk.

A couple of days later, as he was walking home with Bertie, they passed
three or four men who were sauntering idly along, and Thorne felt sure
that his companion received and returned a silent glance of recognition.
He glanced over his shoulder at them, and disliked their look
exceedingly. "Do you know who those fellows were we passed just now?" he
said.

Bertie looked back: "One is the brother of a man in our choir."

"Hm! I wouldn't have one of them for my brother at any price," said
Percival. The matter dropped, but he could not forget it. He fancied
that there was a slight change in Bertie himself--that the boy's face
was keener and haggard, and there was an anxious expression in his eyes.
But he owned frankly that he was not at all sure that he should have
noticed anything if his suspicions had not been previously aroused.

"Come in this evening," said Bertie when they went up stairs. He leant
against the door of Percival's room, and as his friend hesitated he
called to his sister: "Here, Judith! tell Thorne to come and have some
tea with us: they've let his fire out, and his room is as warm and
cheerful as a sepulchre."

"Do you think I order other people about as I do you?" she
replied.--"Will you come, Mr. Thorne? I can, at any rate, promise you a
fire and a welcome."