They were all in the cab rolling homewards. He felt in his pocket; something there in paper. He could tell by the feel of it that it was a sovereign or a shilling. Cautiously he lifted it to the light of the lodge gates.

It was Gold. He sighed with satisfaction—but the real thing was the silver ring. He sat there, making calculations.

“Mrs. Carstairs,” he said suddenly, “if I have threepence a week for eight years, and save it all, could I have enough to be married?”

There was no answer. She was apparently sleeping—so he added sotto voce:

“And perhaps father will give me sixpence a week after I’m fifteen.”