eas were
handed to the widow, and Phil Reach, a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of
two, was hugged in his mother's arms, smothered with kisses and big
tears, and finally, wondering no doubt what all the commotion meant, was
handed over to Mr Western.

He was an interesting little mite too, always happy and bright, and ever
ready for a romp. And to do them justice, Mr Western and his wife
proved a devoted father and mother to their adopted son. They lived for
him, and never for a single moment forgot what was the object of their
lives.

When the child was four years old his training commenced, and from that
day it had proceeded unceasingly. Had his days been made bright and
joyous, success might have attended the efforts of the worthy vicar and
his wife; but Phil Western--as he was now called--seldom knew what it
was to be really happy. Living with an eccentric couple, whose
austerity would have tried an adult, and deprived of playmates, he soon
began to mope and pine. So much so, that at last the doctor ordered
home lessons to be given up, and after a good deal of persuasion his
adopted parents were prevailed upon to send him to the local school.
What a change it was! From sorrow to sunlight. Phil rapidly picked up
his health, and before long had hosts of friends. But at home the old
life still continued. The training was never for one moment forgotten,
and if only the desired end had been attained, Phil would have developed
into one of those abnormally good boys who never do wrong, and whose
lives are a pattern to all others. But, unfortunately, this was not the
case.

Phil, indeed, grew up to be scarcely the studious and sober-minded lad
his adoptive parents had hoped to see. Bottled up by the strictness of
life at home, his spirits simply boiled over when once he left the
house, and at school his masters knew him as a mischievous but
good-hearted youngster, whose courage and lively nature often led him
into doing stupid things, for which he was afterwards full of regret.
There was not a prank played of which he was not the ringleader, and any
batch of culprits mustered outside the doctor's study, waiting for
punishment, was certain to number him in its ranks. And yet he was not
a bad boy.

"He is simply incorrigible. I can do nothing with him, and you must
take him away at the end of the term," the worthy doctor had said when
discussing with Mr Western the affair of the booby-trap laid for the
mayor. "