house, in a fine street.

"This is where I board," said the young man. "Come in."

He rang the bell, and a servant answered the summons. She looked
surprised at the appearance of the pair, both showing signs of the
wetting they had received.

"We met with an accident, Bridget," explained the young man, "or rather
I tumbled into the water and this boy jumped after me."

"Faith you look like it, Mr. Mordaunt," said Bridget. "Will I tell Mrs.
White?"

"Yes. Ask her if she can send us up some hot coffee in about twenty
minutes. I am afraid, if we don't have some hot drink, we will take
cold."

"All right, sir."

A hasty glance satisfied Tom that it was a first-class boarding-house.
The hall was handsomely furnished, and when, on reaching the head of
the stairs, his companion led the way into a spacious room, with a
chamber connecting, our young hero saw a rich carpet, elegant
furniture, a handsome collection of books, and some tasteful pictures
upon the walls. It was evident that Mr. Mordaunt was possessed of ample
means.

"Now--by the way, I've forgotten your name, yet----"

"Gilbert Grey. Some call me Tom, for short."

"Now, Gilbert, make yourself at home. The best thing we can do is to
strip at once, and put on dry clothes."

He went to a wardrobe and brought out two suits of clothes, also a
supply of under-clothing.

"There," said he, "go ahead and change your clothes."

Tom followed directions obediently, while his companion was similarly
employed. Of course, it was necessary to wash, also. The clothes were
too large for him, but still not much, as he was a well-grown boy, and
Mr. Mordaunt was by no means large.

"How do you like the looks?" asked the young man, as Tom surveyed
himself in a handsome mirror.

"I expect it's me, but I ain't certain," said Tom. "It'll take me some
time to grow to these clothes."

"They are rather big, that's a fact," said the young man, smiling.
"When the servant comes up with the coffee, we'll send down our suits
to be dried. Will your friends feel anxious about you?"

"There's one will, I expect," said Tom.

"Who is that--your mother?"

"No; it's my intimate friend, Maurice Walton. He can't bear me out of
his sight, or in it, either."

Mordaunt laughed.

"So he's very devoted, is he?"

"You bet he is."

Here there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," called Mordaunt.

Bridget entered with a waiter, on which were a coffee-pot, some cups
and saucers, su