ve you friends in the country?"

"No."

"Hasn't your wife any friends in the country who would take her and the
lad for a month or so?"

"No."

"Have you anything to pawn?"

"Very little."

"Then I would advise you to pawn everything you own, or sell it if you
can, and take the boy on your back and tramp to the country. You will
get work there probably more easily than in the city. Here are ten
shillings to help you."

"I don't want your money," said Morris, in a surly tone. "I want work."

"I have no work to give you, so I offer you what I have. I haven't as
much of that as I could wish. You are a fool not to take what the gods
send."

Morris, without replying, gathered up his son in his arms and departed.

"Here is a bottle of tonic for him," said the doctor to Mrs. Morris.

He placed the half-sovereign on the bottle as he passed it to her. She
silently thanked him with her wet eyes, hoping that a time would come
when she could repay the money. The doctor had experience enough to know
that they were not to be classed among his usual visitors. He was not in
the habit of indiscriminately bestowing gold coins.

[Illustration: "'HERE IS A TONIC FOR HIM.'"]

It was a dreary journey, and they were a long time shaking off the
octopus-like tentacles of the great city, that reached further and
further into the country each year, as if it lived on consuming the
green fields. Morris walked ahead with the boy on his back, and his wife
followed. Neither spoke, and the sick lad did not complain. As they were
nearing a village, the boy's head sunk on his father's shoulder. The
mother quickened her pace, and came up to them, stroking the head of her
sleeping son. Suddenly, she uttered a smothered cry and took the boy in
her arms.

"What's the matter?" asked Morris, turning round.

She did not answer, but sat by the roadside with the boy on her lap,
swaying her body to and fro over him, moaning as she did so. Morris
needed no answer. He stood on the road with hardening face, and looked
down on his wife and child without speaking.

The kindly villagers arranged the little funeral, and when it was over
Jack Morris and his wife stood again on the road.

"Jack, dear," she pleaded, "don't go back to that horrible place. We
belong to the country, and the city is so hard and cruel."

"I'm going back. You can do as you like." Then, relenting a little, he
added, "I haven't brought much luck to you, my girl."

[Illustra