hardships and
miseries of the day, it was the sight of their mother's bright face as
she awaited them that evening at the door of Number 6, Dull Street. If
the day had been a sad and lonely one for Mrs Cruden, she was not the
woman to betray the secret to her sons; and, indeed, the happiness of
seeing them back was enough to drive away all other care for the time
being.

Shabby as the lodgings were, and lacking in all the comforts and
luxuries of former days, the little family felt that evening, as they
gathered round the tea-table and unburdened their hearts to one another,
more of the true meaning of the word "home" than they had ever done
before.

"Now, dear boys," said Mrs Cruden, when the meal was over, and they
drew their chairs to the open window, "I'm longing to hear your day's
adventures. How did you get on? Was it as bad as you expected?"

"It wasn't particularly jolly," said Reginald, shrugging his
shoulders--"nothing like Wilderham, was it, Horrors?"

"Well, it was a different sort of fun, certainly," said Horace. "You
see, mother, our education has been rather neglected in some things, so
we didn't get on as well as we might have done."

"Do you mean in the literary work?" said Mrs Cruden. "I'm quite sure
you'll get into it with a little practice."

"But it's not the literary work, unluckily," said Reginald.

"Ah! you mean clerk's work. You aren't as quick at figures, perhaps, as
you might be?"

"That's not exactly it," said Horace. "The fact is, mother, we're
neither in the literary not the clerical department. I'm a `printer's
devil'!"

"Oh, Horace! what _do_ you mean?" said the horrified mother.

"Oh, I'm most innocently employed. I run messages; I fetch and carry
for a gentleman called Durfy. He gives me some parliamentary news to
carry to one place, and some police news to carry to another place--and,
by-the-way, they read very much alike--and when I'm not running
backwards or forwards I have to sit on a stool and watch him, and be
ready to jump up and wag my tail the moment he whistles. It's a fact,
mother! Think of getting eighteen shillings a week for that! It's a
fraud!"

Mrs Cruden could hardly tell whether to laugh or cry.

"My poor boy!" she murmured; then, turning to Reginald, she said, "And
what do you do, Reg?"

"Oh, I sweep rooms," said Reg, solemnly; "but they've got such a
shocking bad broom there that I can't make it act. If you could give me
a new broom-he