iration.

And he thought of what might have been his lot, had it not been--for
whom?--had it not been for Egerton, he might, like them, have been in
his proper place, instead of the outcast that he was; and the old
feeling of revenge grew firmer and stronger with his growing years.

He must, he would, meet Egerton some day, and then, then he would
settle the account that was between them.

So time flew on, and Harry had been two years with Mr and Mrs Blewcome;
and these years of "roughing it" had physically done him good. He had
grown fast, and happily proportionally strong with his height; and you
would not have recognised the Harry of fifteen in his common clothes,
as being the same fragile boy of thirteen whom you saw that night in
June weeping over his mother's grave in the moonlight.

Still, in spite of his dress, you could see he was a gentleman, every
inch his father's son. For it is not to be supposed, as some might
hastily and ignorantly suppose, that Alan Campbell was not a gentleman,
because he was an engineer.

A chief-engineer on board one of Her Majesty's ships-of-war, and an
engine-driver of a locomotive, are two very different personages. This
new branch of sea-service is of course to be traced to the change in
the Royal Navy from the old sailing vessels to the iron-clad
steamships. And the post of chief-engineer, though not necessarily
requiring a gentleman by birth, yet often attracted those who, having
changed their plans in life, wished to join the service, when it was
too late to join as midshipmen.

* * * * * *

It was a bright June morning, nearly two years to the very day since
Harry had fallen in with Blewcome's Royal Menagerie; and after a long
journey through the greater part of the night, the cavalcade was
wearily entering a seaport town in the south of England. Mr and Mrs
Blewcome were both asleep, snoring in unison within their gorgeously
painted caravan, and Harry was sitting astride one of the identical old
piebald steeds that had drawn Mr and Mrs B. for the last ten years.

On reaching a turnpike at the outskirts of the town, the proprietor and
proprietress of the Royal Menagerie arose from their slumbers. And
this was a general signal for a "wake-up." The whips were plied
lustily over the jaded horses, to give them a lively, not to say frisky
appearance. The trumpets rose to the lips of the musicians, and the
drumsticks flew into the hands