the level of the great bench-table, he stopped short, staring at its
bare level surface, rose up, turned, and looked sharply at the gardener,
and then in quite an excited way stepped to where the upturned cask
stood covered with its blanket, and raised it as if expecting to find
something there.

But the glass disc his uncle spoke of as a tool lay there only; and with
a horrible feeling of dread beginning to oppress him, Tom turned back to
the heap of blanket lying upon the floor, stooped over it, but feared to
remove it--to lift it up from the worn flagstones.

"Anything the matter, sir?" said David, looking at him curiously from
the door.

"Matter? Yes!" cried Tom, who was beginning to feel a peculiar tremor.
"David, you--you opened that window."

"Nay, sir, I never touched it," said the gardener stoutly.

"Yes; while I was gone for the saw and wedges."

"Nay, sir, I come down and just looked about, that's all; I never
touched the window."

"But--but there was the beautiful, carefully-ground speculum there on
that bench, just as uncle and I had finished it. We left it covered
over last night--with the blanket--and--and--" he added in a tone of
despair, "it isn't there now."

"Well, I never touched it, sir," said the gardener; "you may search my
pockets if you like."

Tom could not see the absurdity of the man's suggestion, and in his
agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had
dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but
paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not
daring to touch it.

"It's broken," he moaned to himself; "I know it is!" and the cold
perspiration stood out upon his forehead.

"I shouldn't ha' persoomed to touch none o' master's contrapshums, sir,"
broke in the gardener, rather sharply, "so don't you go and tell him as
I did. I know how partickler he always is."

"Broken--broken!" murmured Tom. "The poor speculum--and after all that
work."

Then slowly taking the fold of the blanket in his hand he raised it up,
and drew it on one side, faintly hoping that he might be wrong, but
hoping against hope, for the next moment he had unveiled it where it
lay, to see his worst fears confirmed--the beautiful limpid-looking
object lay upon the flag at the end, broken in three pieces, one of
which reflected the boy's agitated face.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"Oh, David!" cried Tom at last, "how could you touch?"

T