wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for
any one's else even."

"I know, I know," the old gentleman agreed. "But I think he has had
about enough of it. See that Vicky writes that letter first thing
to-morrow."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

A LETTER AT LAST.

Christmas had come and gone. It brought Geoff's home-sick loneliness to
a point that was almost unbearable. He had looked forward vaguely to the
twenty-fifth of December with the sort of hope that it would bring him
some message, some remembrance, if it were but a Christmas card. And for
two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he
passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter--was he
_sure_ there was no letter for James Jeffreys? But the postman only
shook his head. He had "never had no letter for that name, neither with
nor without 'care of Mr. Eames,'" as Geoff went on to suggest that if
the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked.
And when not only Christmas, but New Year's Day too was past and gone,
the boy lost hope.

"It is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare
little room. "I think they might think a _little_ of me. They might be
sorry for me, even--even if I did worry them all when I was at home.
They might guess how lonely I am. It isn't the hard work. If it was for
mother I was working, and if I knew they were all pleased with me, I
wouldn't mind it. But I can't bear to go on like this."

Yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things
were it would be like begging for Mr. Byrne's charity. And every feeling
of independence and manliness in Geoff rose against accepting benefits
from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. Still, he was
sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for
long. "Work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague
ideas of it. He could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than
the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the
companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care
to live. And gradually another idea took shape in his mind--he would
emigrate! He saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling
of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the
cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in
a y