sted that if Trimble was such a cad the boys had better not be
late.

"Have some parliament cake?" said Freddy, opening his satchel and
producing a large square of crisp gingerbread.

Jeffreys had not the heart to refuse a little piece of this delicacy,
and enjoyed it more than the most sumptuous meal in an hotel. Teddy
also insisted on his taking a bite out of his apple.

"Good-bye," said the little fellow, putting up his face in the most
natural manner for a kiss. Jeffreys felt quite staggered by this
unexpected attention, but recovered his presence of mind enough to do
what was expected of him. Freddy, on the other hand, looked rather
alarmed at his young brother's audacity, and contented himself with
holding out his hand.

"Good-bye, little chap," said Jeffreys, feeling a queer lump in his
throat and not exactly knowing which way to look.

Next moment the two little brothers were trotting down the road hand-in-
hand as gay as young larks. Jeffreys thought no more about the navvies,
or the delights of a labourer's life. A new hope was in him, and he
strolled slowly back into York wondering to himself if angels ever come
to men in the shape of little schoolboys.

It was still early when he reached the city. So he spent sixpence of
his little store on a bath in the swimming baths, and another sixpence
on some breakfast. Then, refreshed in body and mind, he called at the
post-office. There was nothing for him there. Though he hardly
expected any letter yet, his heart sunk as he thought what news might
possibly be on its way to him at that moment. The image of Forrester as
he lay on the football field haunted him constantly, and he would have
given all the world even then to know that he was alive. Hope, however,
came to his rescue, and helped him for a time to shake off the weight of
his heart, and address himself boldly to the enterprise he had in hand.

That enterprise the acute reader has easily guessed. He would offer his
services to the worthy Mrs Trimble, _vice_ Mr Fison, resigned. He
never imagined his heart could beat as quickly as it did when after a
long search he read the words--"Galloway House. Select School for
Little Boys," inscribed on a board in the front garden of a small, old-
fashioned house in Ebor Road.

The sound of children's voices in the yard at the side apprised him that
he had called at a fortunate time. Mrs Trimble during the play-hour
would in all probability be disen