rge Aspel to post, in time for the evening
mail.

It was five minutes to six when Aspel ascended the steps of St.
Martin's-le-Grand. The usual rush was in progress. There was a
considerable crowd in front of the letter-box. Instead of pushing
through, George took advantage of his height, stretched his long arm
over the heads of the people, and, with a good aim, pitched the box into
the postal jaws.

For a few seconds he stood still, meditating a call on Phil Maylands.
But he was not now as eager to meet his friend as he used to be. He had
begun a course of dissipation, and, superior though he was in years,
physique, and knowledge to his friend, he felt a new and uncomfortable
sense of inferiority when in the presence of the straightforward, steady
boy.

At seventeen a year adds much to the manhood of a youth. Phil's powers
of perception had been greatly quickened by his residence in London.
Although he regarded Aspel with as warm affection as ever, he could not
avoid seeing the change for the worse in him, and a new feeling of deep
anxiety and profound but respectful pity filled his heart. He prayed
for him also, but did not quite believe that his prayers would be heard,
for as yet he did not fully realise or comprehend the grand truths of
the religion in which his mother had faithfully trained him. He did not
at that time understand, as he afterwards came to understand, that the
prayer of faith--however weak and fluttering--is surely answered,
whether we see the answer or not, and whether the answer be immediate or
long delayed.

On one occasion, with feelings of timorous self-abasement, he ventured
to remonstrate with his friend, but the effort was repelled. Possibly
the thought of another reproof from Phil was the cause of Aspel's
decision not to look him up on the present occasion.

As he descended the steps, a man as tall and powerful as himself met him
and stared him in the face. Aspel fired up at once and returned the
stare. It was Abel Bones, on his way to post a letter. The glare
intensified, and for a moment it seemed as if the two giants were about
to fight. A small street boy, observing the pair, was transfixed with
ardent hope, but he was doomed to disappointment. Bones had clenched
his right hand. If he had advanced another inch the blood of the
sea-kings would have declared for war on the spot, regardless of
consequences. But Bones was too old a bird thus to come within reach of
his