Up to London, one May morning, came Samuel Coleridge, and as the coach rattled over the pavements, and the roar and tumult of the city filled his ears, the boy clutched his uncle's arm with delight. Never before in all his ten years had he journeyed beyond the quaint country village where he was born, and the dun clouds of city smoke caused him to look expectantly about for rain.

His uncle laughed and patted the boy's arm good-naturedly. "Never mind," he said; "these crowded streets will soon become as homelike to you as one of your Devonshire fields."

Mr. Bowdon was right, and at the end of a week Samuel could go alone about the quarter of the city where his uncle resided, and his ears grew so accustomed to the mighty din that he quite forgot there was any noise to hear.

Samuel was the youngest of thirteen children. His mother was a widow, and gradually she had become too poor to provide food and shelter for so great a family. To be sure, the oldest brothers and sisters aided her as best they could, but times were hard, money was scarce at best, and when Uncle Bowdon proposed to undertake the care and education of Samuel his offer was thankfully accepted. It was planned that the boy should visit at his uncle's house for several weeks, and that later in the summer he should enter the famous charity school known as Christ's Hospital. Many families sought to send their sons to this school, but only those pupils were admitted who were too poor to pay for their education.

Samuel was tall for his age, and very dark. He was attractive without being handsome, for his striking look of intelligence, his slight, straight figure and ready laughter, earned for him the frankest approval of friends and strangers too.

Mr. Bowdon was exceedingly proud of him, and often took him to his club, that his friends might become acquainted with his young guest. Also Mr. Bowdon planned frequent excursions about the city, so that his nephew might enjoy the notable sights of London. These were indeed gala days for Samuel, and when the time came for him to go to school he could scarcely believe that ten weeks had flown since he had come up by the coach from his country home. It is doubtful whether Mr. Bowdon would have been willing to part with the lad even after so long a visit, but his business just at this time compelled him to take a long journey to the East Indies, and he desired to see the boy safely established before departing from London.

Accordingly, one fine July afternoon, uncle and nephew arrived at the great school in Newgate Street, through whose high iron gate they were admitted by a boy wearing a queer costume of blue and yellow. Samuel had no eyes for the stately buildings grouped about the enclosure, for across the shaded central grass-plot marched a veritable army of boys, walking four abreast with military precision. Like the page at the gate, they wore long blue coats reaching nearly to the ankle and trimly girdled with red, bright yellow stockings, low buckled shoes and neckbands of snowy whiteness. Oddly enough, their heads were bare, and Samuel supposed that they had left their caps behind, though he learned later that the "king's boys," as these were called, never wore head coverings of any description, but went serenely abroad in all weathers, guiltless of beaver, helmet, or turban.

On they came, more boys and more boys, until Samuel grew fairly dizzy with watching the steadily moving column.

"What is the occasion?" inquired Mr. Bowdon of the gatekeeper.

"The lord mayor is visiting the school to-day, sir, and the scholars are going now to hear his address."

When the gayly apparelled procession had gone in, the steward of the school, a young man in russet gown, came to greet the strangers and to show them about the place. He conducted them through the twelve dormitories, where rows of narrow white beds stood side by side down either wall; to the dining-hall with its long tables, where all the students sat down at once; and to the office of the registrar, a spectacled old gentleman, who took down a great book and gravely wrote upon one of its yellowish pages,—

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, aged ten; born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October, 1772. Regularly entered at Christ's Hospital, July 18, 1782."

Then Mr. Bowdon took his departure, for he was to leave the city at nightfall. Samuel accompanied him to the gate, where he received his uncle's affectionate farewells, then peering wistfully through the iron palings, he watched the portly figure move slowly down Newgate Street, until it was lost to view in the passing crowds.

With the last glimpse of Mr. Bowdon, Samuel was seized with a sudden panic of fear and loneliness, for never before had he been out of the sight of kindred faces, nor out of the sound of kindred voices. Even the page had left the gate, and Samuel clung to the palings in strange dismay. His attention was arrested by the doors of the lecture-hall being thrown open and the blue and yellow procession reappearing, headed by the lord mayor of London and a company of white-wigged, black-gowned masters and tutors. The gate swung back, the lord mayor received a military salute from the boys, and passed out to his waiting carriage, and at sound of a clanging bell the procession turned and wound its way to the dining-hall, leaving the campus deserted except for the presence of one young stranger.

"I wonder if I am to go in, or if I am to have any supper at all," queried the boy, looking anxiously about, as he suddenly awakened to the fact that he was fearfully hungry. "Nobody knows that I am here but the steward and the old man with the book."

His doubts were relieved by the appearance of the brown-robed steward, who beckoned to him from the entrance of the dining-hall.

Samuel sped to his side, and was ushered into the vast apartment where the pupils sat at dinner. Quiet reigned here, broken only by a subdued conversation at the masters' table, and the voice of a tutor who from a desk at the upper end of the room read a Latin oration for the entertainment of those present.

Samuel was conducted to a vacant seat at one of the long tables, where a wooden bowl of soup and a slice of bread awaited him. These he quickly despatched, and turning to the boy on his right, was about to inquire modestly how he should get a fresh supply, when his neighbor hastily pressed his finger to his lips, as a sign that speech was forbidden. Samuel was surprised at this injunction, especially as he was still hungry, and glancing about the board, he discovered that every other bowl was as empty as his own, and that no single crumb of bread was to be seen.

No one addressed him, but he was aware that numerous pairs of eyes were fixed curiously upon him. He shrank from this open scrutiny, although the boys at his table were all near his own age; and reddening, he gazed persistently at his bowl.

"Ss—ss!" came in a soft hiss from a lad across the table.

"Ss—ss! Ss—ss!" cautiously echoed a dozen others.

Samuel wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, but to his surprise, his neighbor on the right reached over and grasped his knee with friendly force. Samuel instantly responded by seizing the stranger's knee, and, fortified by this unlooked-for support, threw back his head and eyed in turn each lad at the table. There was something in his fearless glance that caused the hisses quickly to subside; and when the bell rang, and the students trooped out, no word of challenge was offered to him. Moreover, no other kind of words came either, for it was the hour of recreation, and the boys swarmed the campus, shouting, whistling, singing, and engaging in various athletic games. The most popular sports seemed to be leap-frog and basting-the-bear, for groups everywhere were indulging in these rollicking pastimes.

Samuel stood alone watching, for even his neighbor at table had joined the merry-makers. He decided that if he wished to become one of them he must make a bold move; so, marching up to one of the leap-frog companies, he ventured to enter the game. The effort was quickly foiled, however, for one pupil seized him by the leg, another by the hair, while twenty voices shouted at once,—

"Clear out! Don't you know you can't play with us till you get your blue coat?"

Samuel retired, much crestfallen, wondering when he should be promoted to the prevailing uniform. He wandered up and down the schoolyard, watching here, watching there, hearing never a word of greeting, nor meeting with a friendly nod or smile. At length he came upon an outer stairway, which seemed to lead somewhere, and climbing it, more with the desire to get away from the hordes of strangers than to explore the premises, he came out upon a flat, leaded roof. Resting his folded arms upon the parapet, he stood gazing at the evening sky, solitary and sad. Up to him came the shouts of the students and the roar of the city's noises, and for the first time since he had come to London, his heart turned back with a mighty longing to the fields, the river, and the simple folk of his native village. If only he might hear the lapping of the water and the tinkling of the sheep bells, he would give all that he possessed in the world. He thought of his mother and of his big brother Luke, and the vision of their faces came before him with such startling plainness that he set his teeth and clenched his hands to stem the tide of homesickness that surged over him.

At sound of the deep-toned bell, he hurried down the stair, suspecting that the slender supper was about to be supplemented by a tea or luncheon of some sort; but he was mistaken, for, although the western sky was still ablaze, the boys were filing toward the dormitories.

"This way, Coleridge," called the steward, appearing on the green.

"Where are they going?" inquired Samuel.

"To bed," rejoined the other briefly.

"To bed!" ejaculated Samuel; "why, it's only seven o'clock!"

"Seven is the hour for bed at this school," explained the other shortly, and Samuel gathered from his tone that further comment would be unacceptable.

Awakened next morning by the signal bell, Samuel sat up in his narrow cot and blinked sleepily. Across his bed was thrown a complete uniform such as the other boys wore, and springing up, he gladly donned the costume, and marched down with the others.

At breakfast he sat in the same seat he had occupied last night, and his right-hand neighbor greeted him with a cordial pinch on the arm.

The meal this morning consisted of a quarter-of-a-penny-loaf, on a wooden plate, and a small leathern cup of beer. Samuel was accustomed to rich country milk, fruit, and vegetables; but with yesterday's hunger still unappeased, he could not afford to be fastidious. In a twinkling the bread and beer had disappeared, and he was unconsciously glancing about in search of some one who would serve him with more, when he chanced to notice that every plate and cup at the table was swept clean, and that the lads were shifting about in their chairs as though anxious to be dismissed. Then it was that Samuel realized with a curious pang that plates were never refilled at Christ's Hospital, and that the allowance was always distressingly small. Almost as hungry as when he had sat down, he rose with the others and passed outside.

He was about to speak to his table neighbor, when that young person suddenly set off for the high iron palings. Without stood a half-grown girl, holding a little basket on her arm, and when the boy came up with her, she took something from the tiny hamper, and passed it through the fence. That the gift was in the nature of food of some sort, Samuel discovered from the alacrity with which the boy proceeded to devour it; and the lad from Devonshire stood watching the operation with the strangest of gnawing sensations inside him. Other boys looked greedily at this spectacle, but went about their affairs as though the sight were a familiar one; and Samuel, following their example, was turning mechanically away when a beckoning gesture from the lad at the fence called him thither.

"Here, I like you, and I'll give you a bit. Come on!"

Before Samuel had time to accept or decline, the stranger had crowded into his hand a hot roll, and was all but pouring a small can of tea down his throat.

"Thank you—it's fine," gurgled Samuel, "but I don't want to take the things you ought to have."

"I can spare some. You see I'm ashamed to have this stuff brought to me when the other boys can't get any, but when it comes, I'm so starved I eat it anyway. My sister brings a little breakfast over every day, for our house isn't very far away, and it helps out, I can tell you. Here's another piece of crust. Eat it, quick, for I know you want it."

Samuel accepted the proffered fragments gladly, frankly confessing that he had not felt quite satisfied at breakfast.

"Oh, we never have enough here," remarked the other calmly. "Wednesdays are the best, for then they give us meat stew; but that happens only one day in seven."

While Samuel swallowed the pleasing morsels, he keenly examined the face of his generous host. The strange boy was apparently a year or two younger than himself, slightly Jewish in appearance, and very handsome. He was frail-looking, with curling black hair, bright dark eyes, and sensitive lips. His expression was thoughtful, and something in his impulsive manner had attracted Samuel from the beginning.

"What's your name?" demanded the younger lad, when Samuel had finished his unexpected breakfast.

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge. What's yours?"

"Charles Lamb; and this is my sister Mary."

The girl smiled prettily, and waving her basket as she turned to go, called back, "You must come to see us some time with Charles."

Samuel thanked her and promised; and as the bell rang, summoning the pupils to lessons, he inquired,—

"How many boys are there here?"

"Six hundred."

"Plus one, now I've come."

"I like you," declared Charles again, linking his arm with that of the new boy, as they fell into line.

"I like you, too," responded the other warmly; and so began a friendship that grew stronger with each succeeding day.

Samuel was speedily installed in school work, and having been a book-lover from the age of three, he was placed in a class of boys who were generally older than himself. With these he made friends at once, for his originality, both in work and play, won the admiration of the lads. With the teachers, too, Samuel fared better than most, for while James Bowyer was not a man to be trifled with, having always a birch twig within reach for the correction of young offenders, his wrath seldom descended upon pupils so apt as Samuel.

"But," cautioned Charles, "look out for Jemmy Bowyer when he wears his passy wig!" He meant passionate, for on some occasions the head master appeared in the school-room with his smooth and carefully powdered wig replaced by an old, unkempt, and discolored one, and woe to the pupil who failed in his lessons or otherwise displeased him while thus decorated! His head-dress was the barometer that warned the boys of his moods, and they modelled their conduct accordingly.

Mr. Bowyer was a conscientious teacher, who desired to give the lads most thorough and careful instruction, and the boys who studied earnestly were safe from the touch of his rod except on the days when he wore the "passy wig." Then his temper was most uncertain, and worker and laggard alike were frequently brought to judgment.

At the end of a week, Samuel felt as though he had been a member of Christ's Hospital for a long, long time. Each day was spent like every other day, and he soon found himself going through the routine of study, recitation, play, and sleep as familiarly as the oldest student there.

On Saturday morning Charles said,—

"This is our weekly holiday, you know. Where will you go?"

"Nowhere, I suppose," replied Samuel. "My uncle has left town, and I don't know anybody else in London, so I think I'll have to stay here."

"You can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because nobody is allowed to stay inside the grounds on leave-days. We are all turned out as soon as breakfast is over, the gates are locked, and we can't come in again until evening."

"But surely they won't send us out who have no friends in London!"

"Oh, yes, they will. But come along, and we'll spend the day together somewhere. I'm not going home this time, because my people are away at work."

At eight o'clock six hundred boys filed into Newgate Street and scattered in all directions. For those whose parents resided in town, this weekly holiday was always most welcome; but to the boys who had neither kindred nor friends within reach, the enforced leave-day was often a difficult one.

To-day Samuel and Charles walked about the streets for a time, then made their way to the bank of the New River. Here, to Samuel's delight, green fields stretched before them, birds twittered in the trees, and sleek cows browsed along the shore.

"Oh, oh!" he exclaimed, "this is almost as good as the real country."

With one accord the boys snatched off their garments and plunged into the stream. Both were good swimmers, and they splashed about, diving, floating, and showing their skill in various ways, until they grew tired. Ascending the bank, they dressed quickly and wandered farther up the stream. For a while they threw stones into the current, watching the eddies widen from each pebble that sank into the water; and after a time they lounged against a convenient tree, Samuel relating stories that he had read of ancient heroes, and Charles eagerly listening.

"I wonder what time it is," hinted the latter at length.

"Not much past noon," replied Samuel, glancing at the sun with the experienced eye of the country-bred.

"Wouldn't it be fine if we were cows, with a whole field-full of dinner spread before us," murmured Charles, gazing at the Alderneys beyond.

"And see how fat that bird is! He must eat four or five meals every day!" exclaimed Samuel; then hastening to turn the conversation to topics less vital, he asked genially,—

"What things do you like best in the world?"

"Let me see," mused Charles; "yes, I know very well. I like money, vegetables, and my sister Mary. What do you?"

"Homes, churches, trees, and old people's faces," returned Samuel promptly. "What shall we do now,—go back into town?"

"Not yet, for if we do, we must keep on walking for four or five hours."

"Let's go swimming again, then."

"I'm with you," and a minute later they descended into the river for the second time.

Both were almost as much at home in water as on land, and they swam about, teaching one another aquatic tricks until they became quite breathless. Making for the shore, they climbed weakly up the bank, and only partially robing, dropped side by side upon the sward.

Overcome by fatigue, Charles fell asleep, while Samuel lay panting and composing verses about the Seven Champions of Christendom.

Finally they rose, languid and drooping, and trudged back to the school in Newgate Street, sorry that their holiday was done, but thankful for the supper, however meagre, that would presently be served to them.

As the weeks passed by and summer slowly gave place to autumn, Samuel made rapid progress in his classes. He studied almost constantly, not that he meant to be especially dutiful, but because he loved printed pages better than any other company. He was born with a thirst for books, which made him con his lessons eagerly in the absence of other and more entertaining volumes; and at Christ's Hospital the boys had no access to books of any kind besides the text-books used in their regular courses.

With no fresh stories, histories, or poems to feed his ravenous young mind, Samuel was obliged to dwell upon the tales and truths he had read before coming to London. He soon became known among the students as a capital storyteller, and often he would be found seated tailor-fashion in a remote corner of the playground, surrounded by a dozen choice spirits who listened open-eyed and open-mouthed to his dramatic recitals.

One Saturday in November he was walking down the Strand. Charles had gone to spend this leave-day with his parents, and Samuel was tramping about the streets alone. His thoughts were busy with his favorite hero, Leander, and so absorbed did he become in the story that he entirely forgot the presence of the crowds in the busy thoroughfare. Reviewing the stirring scene when Leander swims the Hellespont to visit the priestess, on the opposite shore, Samuel unconsciously threw out both arms as though buffeting the waves, and one hand smartly rapped the coat tails of a respectable gentleman walking immediately before him.

Samuel started in confusion at being brought back so suddenly from Grecian clouds to London pavements, and offered a stammering apology; but the citizen wheeled abruptly, grasped his arm, and frowned down upon him with mingled horror and distaste.

"What! So young and so wicked! Who could believe that a stripling like you would attempt to pick my pocket in broad daylight! Mm—mm!"

"You're mistaken, you're mistaken, indeed you are," protested Samuel; "I was thinking about Leander crossing the Hellespont, and I must have been swimming too. I didn't even see you, sir, truly I didn't."

"Leander! Well, my young gentleman, what do you know about Leander?"

Samuel explained that he had read and re-read all the mythical tales of Greece, and that he often thought them over for amusement.

The stranger's expression softened.

"You are fond of books, then?"

"I love 'em, sir!"

"Do you read every day?"

"Not since I came to London, for we have no books except our lesson books at school."

"Mm—mm! Should you like to read if you had the opportunity?"

"Wouldn't I?" burst out Samuel, with enthusiasm.

"I think we can arrange matters then. A boy who swims with Leander down London Strand, causing people to take him for a sneak thief, ought surely to have books to read," and pressing a yellow card into Samuel's hand, he continued,—

"This is a ticket to a circulating library in Cheapside. By showing this to the librarian you can draw as many books as you like. Good day, my young gentleman!"

Without waiting to hear Samuel's exclamations of gratitude, the stranger was off, leaving the boy overjoyed in the street.

From that day the school life was made more bearable by the precious fruit of the yellow ticket. Hunger, cold, loneliness, and punishments were daily forgotten in the adventures of knights of old. Samuel took all risks in slipping out to get the books, but, fortunately, he was never detected, and he proceeded to read straight through the library at the rate of two volumes daily.

The ruggedness of his present life, however, could not be entirely smoothed by stories and poetry. Christ's Hospital did not differ from other charity schools of the time in its discipline and arrangements for the welfare of its inmates; and indeed many of the great schools of England, Germany, and France, whose walls could be entered only by the payment of extravagant fees, were similarly conducted. Instructors had not yet learned that young bodies should be cared for as zealously as young brains, and that happiness promotes better work than does distress. They managed their schools exactly as had their fathers before them, deeming it the most natural thing in the world that growing boys should be poorly nourished and poorly warmed.

As winter drew on, Samuel yearned deeply for his home. He pictured to himself the family in the comfortable old house in Devonshire, and his thoughts clung so feverishly to the images of his mother and his big brother Luke that even his dreams enfolded them, and often he awoke weeping in the night. He could not inform the loved ones of his dreary condition, for all letters written by the students were read by the masters before being posted, and if unfavorable comments were found therein, the notes were promptly destroyed.

Charles Lamb was ever Samuel's greatest solace. They met their little world together, fighting, dreaming, hoping, and depending upon each other for company at all times. Both were gayly disposed and many were the daring pranks they played on their mates and upon each other. The leave-days were almost the hardest of the week for Samuel, as Charles usually went home, and he was left to walk the streets alone from morning till night. Sometimes he, too, paid a visit to the Lambs, but finding that they were very poor and very busy people, he feared that his presence might seem an intrusion, so he usually stayed away.

One winter's day Samuel was walking slowly round Newgate market. He had no interest in Newgate market, but he must walk somewhere, and this was as good a place as any. A cold rain beat pitilessly upon his uncovered head, and from time to time he drew his blue coat more closely about him. Everyone but himself seemed in a hurry to get to places of shelter, and occasionally persons would pause to stare curiously at the lad who stood motionless in the downpour, gazing listlessly into shop windows. Whenever he found a deserted stair or vestibule, he stole in and read until he was curtly despatched by owner or policeman. Round and round the square he trod, jaded, famished, waiting for the hours to drag themselves by.

Suddenly revolting at the sights and sounds of the market, Samuel hurried into a by-street, turning to the right here, to the left there, bent only upon leaving the deadly familiar spot behind. On he went, shivering and footsore. On he went, purposeless and oppressed. He was usually able to gather odd bits of pleasure and information from these weekly excursions, but to-day the city seemed like a dull and winding lane, where one had no choice but to walk and walk until nightfall brought the end. Even cathedrals, bird-stores, and persons attired in black, which ordinarily proved highly diverting, failed to arrest his attention, and he tramped the flooded pavements hour after hour and mile upon mile.

Finally he halted before a toy-shop whose windows looked into a narrow court, and was glancing over the display of balls, dolls, and fishing-rods, when a delicious odor of cooked food greeted him from behind. Samuel faced about so sharply that he almost sent a baker's boy sprawling, who chanced to be turning into the court with a huge basket on his shoulder.

"Look out! Look out! Would you try to upset a hard-workin' cove?" bawled the white-capped 'prentice; but Samuel allowed him to pass unanswered, for with the whiff of meaty fragrance his stomach gave a furious lurch, and his head seemed about to swim off his shoulders. He swayed unsteadily, caught blindly at the window ledge, and leaned his forehead against the dripping stone as he struggled to regain his self-command.

"Blue Coat!"

The name was shouted into his ear, and Samuel was dizzily conscious of being collared from behind, while a strong arm pulled him smartly erect.

"I beg your pardon, sir," quavered the boy, alarmed at the gruff tone and iron hand. Twisting his head about, he got a glimpse of a very fat man with a round red face and protruding blue eyes.

"What made ye look so hard at my baker's boy? Anything wrong?"

"No-o!"

"Must ha' been. You glared after him like a tiger."

"Nothing was the matter except I was so hungry,—and—when I smelled the bread and meat—I couldn't help it, I suppose."

For the first time since he had become a pupil at Christ's Hospital, Samuel gave voice to his privations, and, unmanned by sheer want and exhaustion, the truth came out, while tears of misery rained down his pallid cheeks.

"Hungry!" The ejaculation came like the report of a small cannon.

Samuel could only nod in speechless, desperate assent.

"Come in here!" roared the captor, enforcing his order with a ferocious tug at the blue collar.

Samuel feared that he had somehow trespassed upon the big man's rights, and that punishment was likely to follow. He longed vaguely to run, but weakness held him chained, and he felt himself being pushed before his jailer through the toy-shop and into a small parlor at the rear.

"Mother! This Blue Coat is so hungry that he nearly devoured our dinner through his eyes as the baker brought it in."

"Hungry?" echoed a piping feminine voice, and from the farther corner of the parlor a little woman approached with a napkin thrown over her arm.

"Sakes alive, ain't you had no dinner over to the school?" she asked in a motherly tone that set Samuel's heart beating.

"No. We don't have any dinner on Saturdays. They give us a little supper when we go back," and Samuel explained the holiday system.

"What, then, did you have for breakfast?"

"A slice of bread and a cup of beer."

"How perfectly outraging! Our dinner is just ready, so sit up to the table as quick as you can. 'Tain't a fancy meal, but it's good enough to fill up a hollow, faintin' stomach. How perfectly outraging!"

Before Samuel could consent or object, he was thrust into a chair at the small round table, where several steaming dishes awaited the pleasure of the party. Host and hostess took their places, and a heaped-up plate was speedily set before the astonished guest.

"Eat that slice of hot mutton," adjured the woman pleasantly; "and after that, you'll find those potatoes and beans pretty satisfyin'."

The substantial repast seemed a kingly banquet to Samuel, and he ate with almost wolfish appreciation. His plate was like the widow's cruse of oil, which was promptly refilled as soon as emptied; and the fat man and the little woman looked on, the while, with benevolence shining from their faces.

"Now," said the hostess, when Samuel could take no more, not even a second slice of currant pudding, "while we sip our tea, we'll tell each other who each other is. My husband over there is Mr. Crispin, and I'm Mrs. Crispin. He has the toy-shop that you came through, and he is a shoemaker, besides. We never had any children, and we just live along here, contented with what good things we have. Now Mr. Crispin is the best man in the world—"

"Hush, hush, my dear!" burst out the big man, a tremendous blush spreading over his honest face.

"He is, so there! He talks loud and kind o' scary, but he couldn't say 'no' to a kitten. Now, little Blue Coat, tell us who you are."

Samuel had quite regained his usual bright manner under the spell of their hospitality, and he gladly told them of the home and loved ones he had left behind in Devonshire. Pleased to see the Crispins interested, he described many droll adventures of the boys at school, and these set the worthy pair laughing mightily.

After dinner, Mr. Crispin showed his young visitor all the glories of the toy-shop and the shoemaking den. Mrs. Crispin with much pride exhibited four canaries, a yellow patchwork quilt, and a coral breastpin; and Samuel was warmed to the heart by their simple kindliness.

The afternoon wore away all too soon, and when he was leaving, Samuel held Mrs. Crispin's hand tightly in both of his, as he tried to thank her for the blessed visit.

"'Tain't nothing at all!" protested she earnestly. "Who wouldn't give a nice-spoken lad a bite when he was faintin' with hungriness on the very doorstep, an' him a Blue Coat, too? Now listen, Sammy; you are to come here every Saturday. If we shouldn't be to home, you'll find the key under the rubber door-mat, an' you can come right in an' help yourself in the pantry. 'T ain't just that we feel sorry to see you starvin', but we like children, we always did, 'specially nice ones, an' you seem so gentlemanly mannered, an' we'd feel honored to have you here. Remember, every Saturday, now, rain or shine."

His acquaintance with the shoemaker and his wife proved the greatest relief to Samuel. Not only did a toothsome dinner await him every leave-day in their modest parlor, but the whole-souled friendliness of their innocent welcome cheered him through all the following days. The Crispins looked forward to the Saturday visits as eagerly as did Samuel himself, and this assurance gave the boy courage to come with regularity.

During the springtime Mr. Crispin and Samuel even planned that the boy should gain permission from the head master to leave Christ's Hospital altogether and learn the shoemaking trade under Mr. Crispin's direction. It was arranged that the shoemaker, instead of Samuel, should approach Mr. Bowyer with the request, it being thought that his age and size would carry more influence with the head master; but on the day set for the interview Mr. Bowyer chanced to wear his "passy wig," and he disposed of the subject by shouting violently,—

"'O'ds my life, man, what d'ye mean?" and pushing the astounded Crispin bodily out of the room.

Samuel was so disappointed at the failure of the dazzling scheme, and so mortified at the treatment his friend had received, that he was rushing past Mr. Bowyer with the intention of apologizing to Mr. Crispin for having drawn him into his own petty troubles, when the head master stopped him.

"Some one is waiting to see you in my lower office, Master Coleridge."

"To see me, sir?"

Samuel was taken aback, for never before had any one paid him a call at Christ's Hospital.

"Who can it be, I wonder. Surely Mrs. Crispin would not come here."

Crossing the threshold of the office, he descried a stalwart manly form at the window.

The first glance seemed to stupefy the lad. He halted abruptly in the doorway, his hands fell limply at his sides, and he seemed unable to advance or retreat. It only needed a slight movement on the visitor's part to break the tension, when Samuel bounded forward with a great cry, and threw himself into the stranger's arms.

"Luke, Luke, my brother, my Luke, my Luke!"

"Here I am, little fellow. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write."

"Oh, Luke, you won't go away again and leave me here, will you? Please, please tell me that you won't!"

"I shan't leave you alone in the city for a day," declared the young man warmly. "I have come up to walk the London Hospital, so I shall be within easy reach hereafter. Your holidays you shall spend with me, and I have already arranged with the master to make you comfortable here at school. Bless you, little fellow, you mustn't quite suffocate me with your hugging, for I want to live and take good care of you. I have waited and worked for this ever since you came to London, and now you're going to have fair weather all round. Come along; I've just begged a holiday for you. What should you like to do?"

"Introduce you to the Crispins."

"Very well. We'll get the Crispins, and go for a ride on the good old river Thames."

"A boat ride! A boat ride! Luke, do you care if I ask Charles Lamb to go with us?"

"Not a bit. This is the day when we are going to do just as we please, you know."

"Oh, Luke, you're so good, and you'll like the Crispins, and Charles 'll like you—and—and—isn't the world beautiful to-day, Luke?"

In a cosy little parlor, at the top of a London stair, a dozen persons were chatting together. The sounds of wind and rain upon the casement only served to increase the warmth and brightness of the snug apartment.

Everybody seemed in the highest spirits, and finally one of the guests, a man whom the others called "Southey," turned gayly to the hostess and inquired with the ease of old friendship,—

"My good lady, when are we to have our supper? Please remember that Wordsworth and I have journeyed all the way from Keswick solely for the delight of supping with you. Do you realize that eleven o'clock has come and gone?"

Mary Lamb laughed merrily, but shook her head with decision.

"Fifteen minutes more you must wait, so curb your hunger as best you can. The guest of honor has not yet arrived, and when he comes, you will all agree, I am sure, that it would be worth while to delay supper until to-morrow, if only we might have him with us."

"A mystery! A mystery!" cried the visitors, and thereupon they began to ply Miss Mary's brother with questions as to who the expected personage might be.

To all these, the young host gave jovial but vague replies, exchanging with his sister frequent nods and smiles over their heads.

Presently there sounded a quick step on the stair, and Charles Lamb threw open the door, shouting joyfully,—

"Welcome, Samuel, my blessed old friend! Welcome, a thousand times!"

At his words, the guests sprang up with a single impulse, crying in astonishment,—

"Coleridge!"

Then for an instant they turned their eyes away from the two who stood clasping one another's hands in wordless, heartfelt greeting.

The silence endured but a moment; then the new-comer was quickly surrounded, and the room rang with the hearty good-will of his reception.

Charles hastened to relieve him of his travelling cloak and hat, Mary summoned the party to the table, temptingly laid, and the guests sat down to the enjoyment of the viands and the company of their unexpected friend.

Samuel Coleridge had just returned after a two years' absence from England, and the tales he related of his visit, the accounts he gave of his adventures abroad, captivated the company. Every word that fell from his lips was received with keen attention, and whether his mood was grave or gay, serious or sprightly, his hearers sat enthralled.

"To be sure, Coleridge is a wonderful poet," whispered Southey to the lady next him, "but in my judgment he talks even better than he writes."

"He holds us with his expressive eyes," mused Mary.

"I can see," decided Charles, "that his power lies in his magnetic voice, the voice that charmed us all in the old school-days."

Whatever was the source of his singular influence, hours passed as the visitors sat under the spell of Samuel's presence, and morning was stealing across the threshold when they rose from the table and took their departure.

Coleridge was the last to go, and when about to descend the stair, he again clasped the hand of his host with a warm and fervent pressure.

"I am fond of them all," he said slowly, indicating those whose footfalls still sounded in the passage below; "I am fond of them all: Southey, Wordsworth, Lovell, and the rest; but you, Charles Lamb, you are to me as though you had been born my younger brother."