something to-morrow, young man. Or a gun, eh?
Can one buy a gun for half-a-crown?"

Alfred smiled at him.

"It is very kind of you, sir," he said slowly. "I do not care for
chocolate or guns, but if my father would allow me to accept your
present, I should like very much to buy a larger drawing block."

Mr. Bomford looked at the child and looked at his father.

"Buy anything you like," he murmured weakly,--"anything you like at
all."

The child glanced towards his father. Burton nodded.

"Certainly you may keep the half-crown, dear," he assented. "It is one
of the privileges of your age to accept presents. Now run along into
the other room, and I will come in and fetch you presently."

The child held out his hand once more to Mr. Bomford.

"It is exceedingly kind of you to give me this, sir," he said. "I can
assure you that the drawing block will be a great pleasure to me."

He withdrew with a little nod and a smile. Mr. Bomford watched him
pass into the inner room, with his mouth open.

"God bless my soul, Burton!" he exclaimed. "What an extraordinary
child!"

Burton laughed, a little hoarsely.

"A few weeks ago," he said, "that boy was running about the streets with
greased hair, a butcher's curl, a soiled velveteen suit, a filthy lace
collar, dirty hands, torn stockings, playing disreputable games with all
the urchins of the neighborhood. He murdered the Queen's English every
time he spoke, and spent his pennies on things you suck. His mother
threw two of the beans I had procured with great difficulty for them
both into the street. He picked one up and ate it--a wretched habit of
his. You see the result."

Mr. Bomford sat quite still and breathed several times before he spoke.
It was a sign with him of most intense emotion.

"Mr. Burton," he declared, "if this is true, that child is even a
greater testimony to the efficacy of your--your beans, than you
yourself."

"There is no doubt," Burton agreed, "that the change is even greater."

There was a knock at the door. Burton, with a word of excuse, crossed
the room to open it. The postman stood there with a packet. It was his
novel returned once more. He threw it on to a table in the corner and
returned to his place.

"Mr. Burton," his visitor continued, "for the first time in my
life--and I may say that I have been accustomed to public speaking and
am considered to have a fair choice of words--for the first time in my
life I confess that I find m