rd Town. Hitherto, his life had been one
long lazy slumber. Whenever we were sent, on his rare visits to
Lantrig, to "play together," as old age always rudely puts it, his
invariable rule had been to go to sleep on the first convenient spot.
Consequently his presence embarrassed me not a little. He was a
handsome boy, with blue eyes, long lashes, fair hair, and a gentle
habit of speech. When I came to know him better, I learnt the quick
wit and subtle power that lay beneath his laziness of manner; but at
present the soul of Thomas Loveday slept.

He was certainly not wide awake when he entered the room. With a
sleepy nod at me, and no trace of surprise at my presence, he pursued
his meal. Occasionally, as Aunt Elizabeth put a fresh question, he
would regard her with a long stare, but otherwise gave no sign of
animation. This finally so exasperated my aunt that she addressed
him--

"Thomas, do not stare."

Thomas looked mildly surprised for a moment, and then inquired, "Why
not?"

"Does the boy think I'm a wild Indian?" The question was addressed
to me, but I could not say, so kept a discreet silence. Thomas
relieved me from my difficulty by answering, "No," thoughtfully.

"Then why stare so? I'm sure I don't know what boys are made of,
nowadays."

"Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails," was the dreamy answer.

"Thomas, how dare you? I should like to catch the person who taught
you such nonsense. I'd teach him!"

"It was Uncle Loveday," remarked the innocent Thomas.

There was an awful pause; which I broke at length by asking to be
allowed to go. Aunt Elizabeth saw her way to getting rid of the
offender.

"Thomas, you might walk with Jasper over the downs to Lantrig.
It will be nice exercise for you."

"It may be exercise, aunt, but--"

"Do not answer me, but go. Where do you expect little boys will go
to, who are always idle?"

"Sleep?" hazarded Thomas.

"Thomas, you shall learn the whole of Dr. Watts's poem on the
sluggard before you go to bed this night."

At this the boy slowly rose, took his cap, stood before her, and
solemnly repeated the whole of that melancholy tale, finishing the
last line at the door and gravely bowing himself out. I followed,
awestruck, and we set out in silence.

At first, anxiety for my mother possessed all my thoughts, but
presently I ventured to congratulate Tom on his performance.

"She has read it to me so often," replied he, "that I can't help
k