pale face--all the paler for the stress of his winter's work. "Do, Reg;
and for pity's sake, bring a root of some flower if you can find one; it
is sickening to think of a child dying without ever having had such a
thing in his hands."

"All right, then, I will go to-morrow; for--for," Reginald added
gravely, "there is no time to be lost."

"I know there is not; I know it must come soon. Reg, I couldn't have
believed I should have grown to care for the boy as I do."

"No, you have prepared a wrench for yourself, old fellow, but you will
never be the worse for it, Lawrence. You know all about that better than
I can preach it to you."

There was a silence, and then Lawrence said--

"Ought he to be told?"

"Well, that puzzles me; I feel as if he ought, and yet there can be no
need to frighten the child. If it came naturally, it might be better for
you to tell him gently."

"I?" exclaimed Lawrence, aghast.

"Yes, it must be you; he will take it better from you than from anyone
else; but wait and see; you will be shown what to do."

The result of the curate's mission to Cranbury was very satisfactory. On
being directed to the solitary remaining inhabitant of the name of
Wilkins, Reginald learnt that Sarah Wilkins had been the only daughter
of his brother, that she had married a ne'er-do-weel of the name of
Whiston, who had deserted her shortly before the birth of her child,
that she had followed her husband to London as soon as she was able to
travel, and after a while had been lost sight of by her family. The old
man seemed but slightly interested in the matter, and Reginald saw that
no interference need be feared from him. On further consulting the
parish register, he found recorded the marriage of Thomas Whiston and
Sarah Wilkins, and a year later, the baptism of Wilkins, son of Thomas
and Sarah Whiston, in 1856.

"So it is as I hoped, the child is one of the Flock," the curate said
to himself. "And that mite of a boy is thirteen years old!" and he
returned to London triumphant, bringing with him besides the information
he went to seek, a root of primroses with yellow-tipped spikes ready to
burst, and an early thrush's nest containing five delicate blue eggs.
This last treasure Reginald displayed with intense pride.

"I found a boy carrying it on the road, and rated the young rascal
soundly for taking it, but I'm afraid the shilling I gave him made more
impression than the lecture. Isn't it a beauty? I wonder