badness, but paraded it in the open day
before the eyes of all, with a kind of sullen
pride. And that was to be the end of all
Mr. Creswell's plotting and planning, all
his hard work and high hopes? For this
he had toiled, and slaved, and speculated?
Many and many a bitter hour did the old
man pass shut away in the seclusion of his
library, thinking over the bright hopes
which he had indulged in as regarded his
son's career, and the way in which they
had been slighted; the bright what might
have been, the dim what was. Vainly the
father would endeavour to argue with
himself, that the boy was as yet but a boy;
that when he became a man he would put
away the things which were not childish
indeed, for then would there have been
more hope, but bad, and in the fulness of
time develop into what had been expected
of him. Mr. Creswell knew to the
contrary. He had watched his son for years
with too deep an interest not to have
perceived that as the years passed away, the
light lines in the boy's character grew dim
and faint, and the dark lines deepened in
intensity. Year by year the boy became
harder, coarser, more calculating, and more
avaricious. As a child he had lent his
pocket money out on usury to his
schoolfellows, and now he talked to his father
about investments and interest in a manner
which would have pleased some parents and
amused others, but which brought anything
but pleasure to Mr. Creswell as he marked
the keen hungry look in the boy's sunken
eyes, and listened to his half-framed and
abortive but always sordid plans.

Between father and son there was not the
smallest bond of sympathy; that Mr. Creswell
had brought himself to confess. How
many score times had he looked into the
boy's face hoping to see there some gleam
of filial love, and had turned away bitterly
disappointed! How often had he tried to
engage the lad in topics of conversation
which he imagined would have been
congenial to him, and on which he might have
suffered himself to be drawn out, but without
the slightest success. The jovial miller
who lived upon the Dee was not one whit less
careless than Tom Creswell about the opinion
which other folks entertained of him, so
long as you did not interfere with any of
his plans. Even the intended visit of Mrs.
Ashurst and Marian to Woolgreaves elicited
very little remark from him, although the
girls imagined it might not be quite acceptable
to him, and consulted together as to
how the news should be broken to the
domestic bashaw. After a great deal of
cogitation and suggestion, it was decided that
the best plan would be to take the tyrant
at a favourable opportunity—at meal-time,
for instance and to approach the subject
in a light and airy manner, as though it
were of no great consequence, and was only
mentioned for the sake of something to say.
The plot thus conceived was duly carried
out two days afterwards, on an occasion
when, from the promptitude and agility
with which he wielded his knife and fork,
and the stertorous grunts and lip smackings
which accompanied his performance, it was
rightly judged that Master Tom was enjoying
his luncheon with an extra relish. Mr.
Creswell was absent; he seldom attended
at the luncheon table, and the girls
interchanged a nod of intelligence, and prepared
to commence the play. They had had but
little occasion or opportunity for acting, and
were consequently nervous to a degree.

"Did you see much of Mrs. Ashurst in—
in poor Mr. Ashurst's time, at the school,
Tom?" commenced Gertrude, with a good
deal of hesitation and a profound study of
her plate.

"No, no, not much—quite enough!"
returned Tom, without raising his head.

"Why quite enough, Tom?" came in
Maud to the rescue. "She is a most
delightful woman, I'm sure."

"Most charming," threw in Gertrude, a
little undecidedly, but still in support.

"Ah, very likely," said Tom. "We
didn't see much of her—the day boys I
mean; but Peacock and the other fellows
who boarded at Mr. Ashurst's declared she
used to water the beer, and never sent back
half the fellows' towels and sheets when
they left."

"How disgraceful! how disgusting!"
burst out Maud. " Mrs. Ashurst is a
perfect lady, and—oh what wretches boys
are!"

"Screech away! I don't mind," said
the philosophic Tom. "Only what's up
about this? What's the matter with old
Mother Ashurst?"

"Nothing is the matter with Mrs. Ashurst,
your father's friend, Tom," said Gertrude,
trying a bit of dignity, and failing miserably
therein, for Gertrude was a lovable, kissable,
Dresden china style of beauty, without
a particle of dignity in her whole
composition. "Mrs. Ashurst is your father's
friend, sir, at least the widow of his old
friend, and your father has asked her to
come and stay here on a visit, and—and we
all hope you'll be polite to her." It was