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ther was again seated at the little work-table, busily engaged in the design of a Berlin-wool man, with square features.

"How does that happen? I fancy he is something of a miser.'

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"No, indeed, aunt," said Dillon, dejectedly, "Doctor Ryder says he is sinking from positive starvation."

"Well, it is not the first time misers have starved themselves. I have read of many cases of the kind. There was old Dan Ripton, who lived for years like a beggar, and in the end died worth several thousand pounds." Dillon silently hoped this notion about misers would go out of his Aunt's head; he thereupon waited some minutes before renewing the conversation. The old gentleman asleep before the fire continued snoring in different keys and tones all the while; once starting up suddenly for an instant with a quick, bewildered inquiry, "What are you all about? who's dying?" and then relapsing to slumber without receiving any answer or attention.

"What made Doctor Ryder fancy that the man did not get enough to eat?" asked the sharp lady, after a pause.

"I suppose he looked so thin." "Pooh! there are many thin people that eat plenty. I recollect hearing of a man who could eat a leg of mutton at a meal, and yet looked like a skeleton."

"But Mr. Stutzer's servant says he never buys any meat now," observed Bessie.

"Who would mind what a servant said? Very likely they are all in a league together, wanting to excite pity. For myself I never approved of having anything to do with that man; but you know Mrs. Meiklam would force us to employ him, and here you see is the end of it. Pretending indeed to teach you out of compliment, and disappointing all the other boys' fathers and mothers by saying he wasn't able to continue his instructions to them. Why should he make any difference between you and the rest of his pupils? Depend upon it, he has some view in it.'

Dillon was quick-witted enough, yet, somehow, he rarely-very rarely made a sharp answer. Nobody knew better when people were talking unreasonably; but nobody knew better

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"I think Mr. Stutzer is ashamed to let people know how poor he is," replied Dillon. "Doctor Ryder told me not to let him find out that we thought he had no food or money."

"What good would that do him ?” inquired the lady, taking a fresh needleful of wool, for she was now shading an angular arm.

I suppose Doctor Ryder thought he would feel so much ashamed."

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How ridiculous! As if a man could expect to die of starvation without people finding it out. It would save a great deal of trouble if the poor would just seek relief at the workhouse at once, instead of holding out on charity till every one's patience is worn out. Depend upon it, if people come to poverty, they deserve it. I never knew anyone that didn't. There was old Nancy Perkins, who was found dead in the streets one morning, and she had brought herself to beggary by drunkenness. She would sell the clothes off her back for gin; and hundreds of others the same. There is no believing anything that these paupers say. I have been deceived over and over again by plausible stories."

Dillon went back to the sofa and held his peace. Bessie watched him anxiously.

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'Mamma, could we not send Mr. Stutzer something?" she asked gently. "Send him what?"

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Oh, mamma, you know you will, when I wish it," said Bessie, who

knew, alas! too well, her own power. "Dillon and I must have our own way this once.'

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There is some cheese there in the pantry this long time that you may take to him if you like, and some slices of cold mutton; but I intended them for old Jenny Black."

"That would affront him, aunt," said Dillon, gloomily.

"Why, mamma, he would think we thought him a common beggar, if we sent him that," observed Bessie, whose chief aim in these charitable suggestions was to please her cousin Dillon.

"And what is he starving for, if he won't eat any thing he gets ?"

"A sick man couldn't eat cold mutton or cheese," murmured Dillon. "Well, I don't care; he ought to be glad to get anything, if he is so poor as you want to make me believe."

"Give me the key of the larder, mamma," demanded Bessie, in a tone that showed she was very much in the habit of having her own way; "Dillon and I will make a survey of the good things there, and I shall pack a little basket for him to carry to Mr. Stutzer, on his way to school tomorrow."

"I shall do no such thing. Who is this foreigner, that we should be expected to feed him up and pamper him?"

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"Oh, mamma, I have got the key!" exclaimed Bessie, laughing, as she put her little hand into the small basher mother's work-table. Come, now, let us all go down to the larder," and the wayward girl ran merrily to the door. Her mother rose hastily to follow, scolding, frowning, and smiling by turns; but Bessie far outstripped her, and had reached the lower depths of the house ere she was down the first flight of stairs. Dillon followed also; and he and his aunt had just arrived at the larder door as Bessie was contemplating a dish of collared eels, and

a cold roasted partridge lying on a shelf before her. What wonderful things were in that cool and somewhat damp pantry-what a medley of different odours-what bottles of bright coloured liquids-what mysterious crocks tied down with brown paper coverings!

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Mamma, this partridge will just do, and some of the oysters in that jar up there. Now, please, do not look so cross. You will let me do as I like this once, like a dear mother, and say we may have them."

The mother scolded, grumbled, remonstrated; Dillon and Bessie entreated; and, finally, they were permitted to fill a little basket with different good things suitable for a delicate appetite. The cold partridge went in first, then a pot of marmalade, then a small jar of pickled oysters, which Bessie tied down very neatly with her own fair hands, while her mother looked on, prophesying that Dillon would break the things carrying them, and that Mr. Stutzer would not thank anybody for anything. Dillon looked happy at last. He grew rather hungry, too, while looking at all the good things in the pantry; but he did not ask for any supper that night. Up to his cold bedroom, far away at the top of the large house, he repaired thoughtfully. The moon was shining brightly now, and it, and the clouds after it, seemed rushing before the wind at a furious pace. Opening the window, the boy looked out, leaning on his elbows. He could see the town, and the church spire, and the pavement beneath glistening with the lately fallen rain; he could see the gas-lamps, looking blurred and dim, dotting the streets; but it was not of these things he was thinking. He liked the cold wind blowing on his forehead, and that was why he leaned there looking out. His meditations were not of tops or dogs, or a new suit of clothes, or even of supper, but simply of his tutor, Mr. Stutzer.

CHAPTER IV.

DILLON CROSBIE.

AND what is Dillon Crosbie doing in his aunt's house? Has he no other home? He has not. The fat gentleman whom we found dozing at the

parlour fire was his mother's only brother; he had been much older than she was, and he had always regarded her rather as a father than a

brother. At seventeen she married, as everybody thought, in a very promising way, and became the wife of a dashing and handsome Captain, Bagwell Crosbie, of the Dragoons, who had the name of large estates in Ireland-the name, but certainly not the gain, the property being heavily mortgaged, even in his father's lifetime. Mrs. Crosbie's fortune was considerable, but it did not suffice to pay her husband's debts. Crosbie Court was a fine old Irish mansion, and required numerous servants. There were carriages, and horses, and dogs to be kept up, and Captain Crosbie found it hard to retrench his expenses. His father and grandfathers had always been hospitable and leading people in their county. How could he bring himself to sink down into obscurity? He could not bring himself to it, but others did it for him. Creditors accumulated; they clamoured for payment; the estates were not entailed one by one they were sold off; and even Mrs. Crosbie was induced to give up her marriage settlement to save her husband's honour. Sorrowfully Captain Crosbie, with his wife and little son, Dillon, left his once splendid home to settle down in an obscure lodging in Dublin, where he lived but a few months, a stroke of paralysis carrying him off suddenly, while yet in the prime of life. Old Mr. Pilmer-Mrs. Crosbie's fatherhad refused to help his son-in-law in his misfortunes. He had given his daughter a large fortune, and was determined he would do nothing more for her. Arthur Pilmer, the brother, would gladly have rendered her assistance, but, unfortunately, he had never been a favourite with his father, who, though he had given him no profession, allowed him so small an income during his lifetime, that he could neither marry himself, nor help his married sister. When the old gentleman died, he left all his money to his son Arthur, the will being dated several years back, at a time when the Crosbies were supposed to be well enough off, and before Dillon was born. Immediately on coming into possession of a large fortune, Arthur Pilmer determined to render assistance to his sister. He set off at once for Ireland, where, to his infinite grief, he found Mrs.

Crosbie in the last stage of consumption. It was too late to do anything for her beyond soothing her dying moments by assurances of protecting her boy, and providing for him as a gentleman. He waited in Dublin till the grave opened to receive his sister, and then went back to England, accompanied by his young nephew, then about two years old. Marrying almost immediately, Mr. Pilmer determined that Dillon should always find a home under his roof. He always treated him with kindness; but he was an indolent man, easily influenced by any spirit more energetic than his own, and, unfortunately, his wife was by no means of a charitable disposition. The boy, from the wreck of his father's fortune, possessed only six hundred pounds in the world; and this sum being invested in Government funds, at three per cent., produced an interest of eighteen pounds a year, which helped to pay for his schooling and clothes. But his aunt was the most economical of women, and she sometimes thought it hard to be obliged to support a great boy, who consumed nearly three times as much as her daughter Bessie; and being determined that his clothes should cost as little as possible, she always got them made by the cheapest tailors, while orders were given that his shoes should be made a size larger than the dimensions of his feet, lest the latter should grow more quickly than the former wore out. Dillon did not like to be dressed worse than other lads, but he was not of a nature given to grumbling or murmuring. He never fancied he was not understood or appreciated; he never entertained dark thoughts of running away from his uncle's house, and turning sailor, or soldier, or scavenger, or anything else likely to improve his temporal condition. Yet, he was not wanting in proper spirit. He never cringed to any one, though he never felt that he ought to be unhappy because he was depending on people who were not his parents. Perhaps he knew that he had strong arms and legs, and a healthy frame, and that, even if his uncle and aunt turned him adrift, he could earn a livelihood by some means. The boys at school at first laughed at his dress, but he laughed himself too, and then the merriment

ceased to be an excitement. It could not vex him, so its aim was frustrated. His superior size and strength, and his well-known courage, prevented his schoolfellows from thinking his good-humour was assumed from fear. There was not a boy at Mr. Benson's academy that he could not have beaten, had he been engaged in a boxing match. Once, and only once, he had been exasperated to enter into combat at the school, his antagonist being a much older and larger boy than himself. The renown of this fight lived long at the school, owing to the remarkable strength of both combatants. Dillon's foe was Tom Ryder, the only son of the chief physician at Yaxley-a young gentleman notorious for being a bully, and regarded as generally formidable. On this memorable day he was tormenting a lame boy a parlour boarder at the school-when Dillon Crosbie, roused to a pitch of indignation, became the little fellow's champion. A grand combat ensued. Shouts rose on the air as the fight waxed vigorous. "Hurrah, Crosbie!" "Well done, Ryder!" burst from admiring lookers on, as each antagonist seemed rising in the ascendant; but finally, the triumphant cries grew more enthusiastic, as Dillon proved himself the victor, while Tom Ryder lay flat on the ground. For some time a coolness naturally existed between Ryder and Crosbie, but it soon passed away, and they were friends again, little knowing how greatly they would interfere with each other in after-life. Curiously enough, from that day Tom's father admired his son's conqueror, for he heard all about the fight, and the cause of it, and Doctor Ryder was a generous hearted man.

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"Never fight, Dillon," he said, except in a cause like that-it is the only one justifiable," and the herculean physician coughed violently, running his fingers through his bushy hair.

On the whole, young Crosbie got on very well at Mr. Benson's, without thinking much about it, for he did not spend much time thinking of himself in any respect. It was well that nature had so far gifted him, for no careful training had been resorted to at home to form his mind. His uncle, though kind-hearted, was

indolent, and knew nothing whatever of educating youth; while his wife, though over careful about household matters and all worldly affairs, never dreamed of such a thing as moulding the principles of either her own children or her nephew. Bessie was her especial pet and darling, the only creature on earth round whom her heart was twined very closely; yet she was not always gentle to her. The poor child was scolded and petted by turns-rarely ever permitted to do anything without a sort of sham combat, which always ended in her gaining her own way. Bessie knew this well, and her mother's "No" might as well have been "Yes" for all she valued it. Yet nature had also gifted her largely; her disposition was of a fine order-her feelings quick-her delicacy of mind remarkable. How often do we find such children where they could be least expected-growing up in ungenial spots-surrounded by circumstances of adverse kind? Like plants of a rare order springing up in some uncultivated garden, whose owner does not understand their value, Dillon and Bessie, in some mysterious way, grew from day to day, perfectly unlike any one round them. The latter enjoyed all the privileges of an only child - her younger sister, Mary, having resided, since early childhood, with a wealthy godmother-a Mrs. Devenish-who was a distant relative of Mrs. Pilmer, and who, having no children of her own, was a person not to be disregarded, when she requested permission to keep her little god-daughter from year to year under her roof as her own child. Mrs. Pilmer, after a few natural scruples, consented to the arrangement; and it was only as a visiter that little Mary Pilmer made her appearance once a year, or so, at her parents' house at Yaxley, accompanied by her very pompous godmother, who always travelled in her own carriage, and brought with her her own servants, when she made her advent at the Pilmers' residence. Bessie had strong feelings; she loved her father and mother with intensity, and her cousin Dillon also held a high place in her affections. Often she was pained by her mother's treatment of him. Many a bitter tear she shed when she felt that he was too severely punished for any childish

misdemeanor. Dillon loved her too -they were as confidential as brother and sister-rarely quarrelling, though Bessie was often inclined to be tyrannical in planning games and plays, and having her own way in all their

sports. Indeed, an occasional fear shot across the very shrewd mind of Mrs. Pilmer that this affection might possibly ripen into a deeper feeling as time wore on.

CHAPTER V.

THE PRESENT TO THE SICK MAN.

DILLON got up very early next day, and dressed more briskly than usual. He hurriedly took his breakfastsome slices of bread and a bowl of milk which had been left as usual for him on the parlour sideboard the night before-for the family breakfasthour at the Pilmers' house was a very late one, and the lad was generally long at school before his uncle's morning repast had commenced. Bessie had been careful to place the well-filled basket also on the sideboard; and it was with a pleasant feeling that Dillon shut the hall-door after him that day-his books fastened together by a strap, in one hand -the basket in the other. How cold it was! A thick carpet of snow lay on the ground; sparrows were twittering and fluttering on the housetops as he came into the town, which was within a few minutes' walk of his uncle's villa in the suburbs. The clear blue sky looked very frosty-all was bright, white, and icy. His shoes sank with a crisp, crackling sound into the snow, leaving large footprints in it; his hands were redder than everhis nose quite blue. Now and then he paused in his swift course, and laid his books down, to have a fling at a woodpecker or blackbird hovering in the outskirts of the town-now and then he made a snowball and sent it flying at some particular point of aim, and then he sped on, all the swifter, to make up for time lost. As he neared the cottage where Mr. Stutzer lived, his pace slackened; and on arriving finally at the door, he waited a moment before lifting the knocker: then he rapped gently. The old, half blind woman, Margaret Spurs, made her appearance, looking much as usual.

"How is Mr. Stutzer ?" he asked, shaking the snow off his feet on the mat. "What?" in a loud, slightly angry

ing?" repeated the boy very distinctly.

"Not much different, I believe." "Can I see him?"

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Can you what?" very frowningly was demanded, as if Dillon had made some reprehensible request.

66 See him!" shouted the lad.

"You needn't bawl so loud. I'm not deaf if you'd speak plain. I don't know whether you can see him or not. I'll ask," and the old woman hobbled away. She returned as soon as could be expected from her leisurely movements, and informed Dillon that he might walk in. He approached the little parlour where he had always been accustomed to find Mr. Stutzer.

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"He isn't there," said the old woman.

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"Where is he, then?"

"In his own room-where else?"
"But did he say that I might go
him?" asked the boy, hesitatingly.
Oh, he said nothing of that."
"Of what?"

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"Of his going anywhere."

Dillon would have laughed if he had been in a laughing mood, but he merely asked his question over again.

"Yes; he said you might go to him-but don't stop long--the doctor said last night he wasn't to talk much."

With a grave face the boy bent his steps towards the sick room, trying to walk as softly as his shoes would permit, but the heavy soles would come down with unexpected creaks, in spite of his efforts. At last he had reached his destination. He found Mr. Stutzer, dressed, even to his boots, but lying on his bed. He smiled as the boy entered, and for a moment a faint red hue stole over his face, leaving it, when gone, so white that it almost seemed to glisten.

"Good morning, sir. I hope you feel better," said Dillon, taking the "How is Mr. Stutzer this morn- cold hand extended to him.

tone.

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