The happy thought, suggested by Samuel Lynn, Jane carried out. She applied in person to Mr. Peach, and he obtained an immediate entrance for Frank to the college school, with a promise for Gar to enter at quarter-day, the 25th of March. He was perfectly thunderstruck when he found that his old friend and tutor, Mr. Halliburton, was dead; had died in Helstonleigh; and that he—he!—had buried him. There was no need to ask him twice, after that, to exert his interest for the fatherless children. The school (I have told you what it was many years ago) was not held in the highest repute, from the reason spoken of by Samuel Lynn; vacancies often occurred, and admission was easy. It was one great weight off Jane's mind.

William was not so fortunate. He was at that period very short for his age, timid in manner, and no office could be persuaded to take him. Nothing in the least congenial to him presented itself or could be found; and the result was that he resigned himself to Samuel Lynn, who introduced him to Mr. Ashley's extensive manufactory—to be initiated by degrees into all the mysteries necessary to convert a skin into a glove. And although his interest and curiosity were excited by what he saw, he pronounced it a "hateful" business.

When the skins came in from the leather-dressers they were washed in a tub of cold water. The next day warm water, mixed with yolks of eggs, was poured on them, and a couple of men, bare-legged to the knee, got into the tub, and danced upon them, skins, eggs, and water, for two hours. Then they were spread in a field to dry, till they were as hard as lantern horn; then they were "staked," as it was called—a long process, to smooth and soften them. To the stainers next, to be stained black or coloured; next to the parers, to have the loose flesh pared from the inside, and to be smoothed again with pumice-stone—all this being done on the outside premises. Then they came inside, to the hands of one of the foremen, who sorted and marked them for the cutters. The cutters cut the skins into tranks (the shape of the hand in outline) with the separate thumbs and forgits, and sent them in to the slitters. The slitters slit the four fingers, and shaped the thumbs and forgits: after that, they were ready for the women—three different women, you may remember, being necessary to turn out each glove, so far as the sewing went; for one woman rarely worked at more than her own peculiar branch, or was capable of working at it. This done, and back in the manufactory again, they had to be pulled straight, and "padded," or rubbed, a process by which they were brightened. If black gloves, the seams were washed over with a black dye, or else glazed; then they were hung up to dry. This done, they went into Samuel Lynn's room, a large room next to Mr. Ashley's private room, and here they were sorted into firsts, seconds, or thirds; the sorting being always done by Samuel Lynn, or by James Meeking the head foreman. It was called "making-up." Next they were banded round with a paper in dozens, labelled, and placed in small boxes, ready for the warehouses in London. A great deal, you see, before one pair of gloves could be turned out.

The first morning that William went at six o'clock with Samuel Lynn, he was ordered to light the fire in Mr. Ashley's room, sweep it out, and dust it, first of all sprinkling the floor with water from a watering-pot. And this was to be part of his work every morning at present; Samuel Lynn giving him strict charge never to disturb anything on Mr. Ashley's desk. If he moved things to dust the desk, he was to lay them down again in the same places and in the same position. The duster consisted of some leather shreds tied up into a knot, the ends loose. He found he should have to wait on Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn, bring things they wanted, carry messages to the men, and go out when sent. A pair of shears, which he could not manage, was put into his hand, and he had to cut a damaged skin, useless for gloves, into narrow strips, standing at one of the counters in Samuel Lynn's room. William wondered whether they were to make another duster, but he found they were used in the manufactory in place of string. That done, a round, polished stick was handed to him, tapered at either end, which he had to pass over and over some small gloves to make them smooth, after the manner of a cook rolling out paste for a pie. He looked with dismay at the two young errand boys of the establishment, who were black with dye. But Samuel Lynn had distinctly told him that he would not be expected to place himself on their level. The rooms were for the most part very light, one or two sides being entirely of glass.

On the evening of this first day, William, after he got home, sat there in sad heaviness. His mother asked how he liked his employment, and he returned an evasive answer. Presently he rose to go to bed, saying he had a headache. Up he went to the garret, and flung himself down on the mattress, sobbing as if his heart would break. Jane, suspecting something of this, followed him up. She caught him in her arms.

"Oh, my darling, don't give way! Things may grow brighter after a time."

"It is such a dreadful change!—from my books, my Latin and Greek, to go there and sweep out places like those two black boys!" he said hysterically, all his reticence gone.

"My dear boy! my darling boy! I know not how to reconcile you, how to lessen your cares. Your experience of the sorrow of life is beginning early. You are hungry, too."

"I am always hungry," answered William, quite unable to affect concealment in that hour of grief. "I heard one of those black boys say he had boiled pork and greens for dinner. I did so envy him."

Jane checked her tears; they were rising rebelliously. "William, darling your lot seems just now very dark and painful, but it might be worse."

"Worse!" he echoed in surprise. "How could it be worse? Mamma, I am no better than an errand-boy there."

"It would be worse, William, if you were one of those poor black boys. Unenlightened; no wish for higher things; content to remain as they are for ever."

"But that could never be," he urged. "To be content with such a life is impossible."

"They are content, William."

He saw the drift of the argument. "Yes, mamma," he acknowledged; "I did not reflect. It would be worse if I were quite as they are."

"William, we can only bear our difficulties, and make the best of them, trusting to surmount them in the end. You and I must both do this. Trust is different from hope. If we only hope, we may lose courage; but if we fully and freely trust, we cannot. Patience and perseverance, endurance and trust, they will in the end triumph; never fear. If I feared, William, I should go into the grave with despair. I never lose my trust. I never lose my conviction, firm and certain, that God is watching over me, that He is permitting these trials for some wise purpose, and that in His own good time we shall be brought through them."

William's sobs were growing lighter.

"The time may come when we shall be at ease again," continued Jane; "when we shall look back on this time of trial, and be thankful that we did bear up and surmount it, instead of fainting under the burden. God will take care that the battle is not too hot for us, if we only resign ourselves, in all trust, to do the best. The future is grievously dim and indistinct. As the guiding light in your father's dream shone only on one step at a time, so can I see only one step before me."

"What step is that?" he asked somewhat eagerly.

"The one obvious step before me is to persevere, as I am now doing, to try and retain this home for you, my children; to work as I can, so as to keep you around me. I must strive to keep you together, and you must help me. Bear up bravely, William. Make the best of this unpleasant employment and its mortifications, and strive to overcome your repugnance to it. Be resolute, my boy, in doing your duty in it, because it is your duty, and because, William—because it is helping your mother."

A shadow of the trust, so firm in his mother's heart, began to dawn in his. "Yes, it is my duty," he resolutely said. "I will try to do it—to hope and trust."

Jane strained him to her. "Were you and I to give way now, darling, our past troubles would have been borne for nothing. Let us, I repeat, look forward to the time when we may say, 'We did not faint; we battled on, and overcame.' It will come, William. Only trust to God."

She quitted him, leaving him to reflection and resolve scarcely befitting his young years.

The week wore on to its close. On the Saturday night, William, his face flushed, held out four shillings to his mother. "My week's wages, mamma."

Jane's face flushed also. "It is more than I expected, William," she said. "I fancied you would have three."

"I think the master fixed the sum," said William.

"The master? Do you mean Mr. Ashley?"

"We never say 'Mr. Ashley' in the manufactory; we say 'the master.' Mr. Lynn was paying the wages to-night. I heard them say that sometimes Mr. Lynn paid them, and sometimes James Meeking. Those two black boys have half-a-crown apiece. He left me to the last, and when the rest were gone, he looked at me and took up three shillings. Then he seemed to hesitate, and suddenly he locked the desk, went into the master's room, and spoke with him. He came back in a minute, unlocked the desk, and gave me four shillings. 'Thee hast not earned it,' he said, 'but I think thee has done thy best. Thee will have the same each week, so long as thee does so.'"

Jane held the four shillings, and felt that she was growing quite rich. The rest crowded round to look. "Can't we have a nice dinner to-morrow with it?" said one.

"I think we must," said Jane cheerily. "A nice dinner for once in a way. What shall it be?"

"Roast beef," called out Frank.

"Pork with crackling," suggested Janey. "That of Mrs. Reece's yesterday was so good."

"Couldn't we have fowls and a jam pudding?" asked Gar.

Jane smiled and kissed him. All the suggestions were beyond her purse. "We will have a meat pudding," she said; "that's best." And the children cheerfully acquiesced. They had implicit faith in their mother; they knew that what she said was best, would be best.

On this same Saturday night Charlotte East was returning home from Helstonleigh, an errand having taken her thither after dark. Almost opposite to the turning to Honey Fair, a lane branched off, leading to some farm-houses; a lane, green and pleasant in summer, but bare and uninviting now. Two people turned into it as Charlotte looked across. She caught only a glance; but something in the aspect of both struck upon her as familiar. A gas-lamp at the corner shed a light upon the spot, and Charlotte suddenly halted, and stood endeavouring to peer further. But they were soon out of view. A feeling of dismay had stolen over Charlotte. She hoped she was mistaken; that the parties were not those she had fancied; and she slowly continued her way. A few paces more, she turned up the road leading to Honey Fair and found herself nearly knocked over by one who came running against her, apparently in some excitement and in a great hurry.

"Who's this?" cried the voice of Eliza Tyrrett. "Charlotte East, I declare! I say, have you seen anything of Caroline Mason?"

Charlotte hesitated. She hoped she had not seen her; though the misgiving was upon her that she had. "Did you think I might have seen her?" she returned. "Has she come this way?"

"Yes, I expect she has come this way, and I want to find her," returned Eliza Tyrrett vehemently. "I saw her making off out of Honey Fair, and I saw who was waiting for her round the corner. I knew my company wasn't wanted then, and turned into Dame Buffle's for a talk; and there I found that Madam Carry has been telling falsehoods about me. Let me set on to her, that's all! I shall say what she won't like."

"Who do you mean was waiting for her?" inquired Charlotte East.

Eliza Tyrrett laughed. She was beginning to recover her temper. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" said she pertly. "But I'm not going to tell tales out of school."

"I think I do know," returned Charlotte quietly. "I fear I do."

"Do you? I thought nobody knew nothing about it but me. It has been going on this ten weeks. Did you see her, though, Charlotte?"

"I thought I saw her, but I could not believe my eyes. She was with—with—some one she has no business to be with."

"Oh, as to business, I don't know about that," carelessly answered Eliza Tyrrett. "We have a right to walk with anybody we like."

"Whether it is good or bad for you?" returned Charlotte.

"There's no 'bad' in it," cried Eliza Tyrrett indignantly. "I never saw such an old maid as you are, Charlotte East, never! Carry Mason's not a child, to be led into mischief."

"Carry's very foolish," was Charlotte's comment.

"Oh, of course you think so, or it wouldn't be you. You'll go and tell upon her at home, I suppose, now."

"I shall tell her," said Charlotte. "Folks should choose their acquaintances in their own class of life, if they want things to turn out pleasantly."

"Were you not all took in about that shawl!" uttered Eliza Tyrrett, with a laugh. "You thought she went in debt for it at Bankes's, and her people at home thought so. Het Mason shrieked on at her like anything, for spending money on her back while she owed it for her board. He gave her that."

"Eliza!"

"He did. Law, where's the harm? He is rich enough to give all us girls in Honey Fair one apiece, and who'd be the worse for it? Only his pocket; and that can afford it. I wish he would!"

"I wish you would not talk so, Eliza. She is not a fit companion for him, even though it is but to take a walk; and she ought to remember that she is not."

"He wants her for a longer companion than that," observed Eliza Tyrrett; "that is, if he tells true. He wants her to marry him."

"He—wants her to marry him!" repeated Charlotte, speaking the words in sheer amazement. "Who says so?"

"He does. I should hardly think he can be in earnest, though."

"Eliza Tyrrett, we cannot be speaking of the same person," cried Charlotte, feeling bewildered. "To whom have you been alluding?"

"To the same that you have, I expect. Young Anthony Dare."