th a bow, merely saying "that he would rather not
take any money."

The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little more of
persistence on one side and resistance on the other; and then Mr. March
put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the while
lingeringly at the boy--at his tall figure, and flushed, proud face.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, nearly."

"Ah!" it was almost a sigh. He turned away, and turned back again. "My
name is March--Henry March; if you should ever--"

"Thank you, sir. Good-day."

"Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands--but John
did not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following young
Brithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced at
John. Then they disappeared.

"I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable." He flung himself
down, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being so afraid he
would take cold, and so angry at young Brithwood's insults. I sat
wrapped in my cloak, and watched him making idle circles in the sandy
path with the rose-switch he had cut.

A thought struck me. "John, hand me the stick and I'll give you your
first writing lesson."

So there, on the smooth gravel, and with the rose-stem for a pen, I
taught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and join them
together. He learned them very quickly--so quickly, that in a little
while the simple copy-book that Mother Earth obliged us with was
covered in all directions with "J O H N--John."

"Bravo!" he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourishing his gigantic
pen, which had done such good service; "bravo! I have gained something
to-day!"

Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to look at the
waters that were "out." They had risen considerably, even in that
short time, and were now pouring in several new channels, one of which
was alongside of the high road; we stopped a good while watching it.
The current was harmless enough, merely flooding a part of the Ham; but
it awed us to see the fierce power of waters let loose. An old
willow-tree, about whose roots I had often watched the king-cups
growing, was now in the centre of a stream as broad as the Avon by our
tan-yard, and thrice as rapid. The torrent rushed round it--impatient
of the divisions its great roots caused--eager to undermine and tear it
up. Inevitably, if the flood did not abate, within a few hours more
there would be nothing left