chool."

"Oh, oh! Did they ill-treat you, then, or starve you? Come; better
tell the truth."

"No--it wasn't that. It was because--" Jeffreys gave one longing look
at the shelves of beloved books, and an appealing glance at his
questioner--"It was because I--nearly killed a boy."

The man whistled and looked askance at his visitor.

"By accident?"

"Partly. Partly not. But I assure you--"

"That will do," said the man; "that's quite enough. Be off!"

Jeffreys departed without another word. Like Tantalus, the tempting
fruit had been within reach, and his evil destiny had come in to dash it
from his lips. Was it wonderful if he felt disposed to give it up and
in sheer desperation go back to Bolsover?

The whole of the remainder of that day was spent in spiritless wandering
about the streets. Once he made another attempt to obtain work, this
time at a merchant's office. But again the inconvenient question of
character was raised, and he was compelled to denounce himself. This
time his confession was even more unfeelingly received than at the
bookseller's.

"How dare you come here, you scoundrel?" exclaimed the merchant in a
rage.

"Don't call me a scoundrel!" retorted Jeffreys, his temper suddenly
breaking out.

"I'll call a policeman if you are not out of here in half a minute.
Here, you boys," added he, calling his six or eight clerks, "turn this
wretch out of the place. Do you hear?"

Jeffreys spared them the trouble and stepped into the street, determined
to die before he laid himself open to such an indignity again.

His last night's experience at a common lodging-house did not tempt him
to seek shelter again now, and as it was a fine mild night even at that
time of year he trudged out of York into one of the suburbs, where at
least everything was clean and quiet. He had the good fortune in a
country lane to come across a wagon laid up by the roadside, just inside
a field--a lodging far more tempting than that offered by Mr Josephs,
and considerably cheaper. The fatigues and troubles of the day operated
like a feather-bed for the worn-out and dispirited outcast, and he slept
soundly, dreaming of Forrester, and the bookshop, and the dog Julius.

Next morning the weary search began again. Jeffreys, as he trudged back
to the city, felt that he was embarked on a forlorn hope. Yet a man
must live, and a sovereign cannot last for ever. He passed a railway
embankment where a gang of navvies