suppose. I don't like meeting any one who ever knew us at
Riversdale."

"Why, Eddie?" Bertie asked, in open-mouthed wonder. "I thought you would
be delighted to see an old friend. I was, I can tell you, when I met him
yesterday."

"Oh! you saw him before? I suppose you asked him to come and see us,"
Eddie cried angrily.

"No, I didn't; he said he would come himself, and asked for Uncle
Clair's address; and he was always very good to us, Eddie: he gave me a
steam-engine, don't you remember? and you a box of paints. He used to
call you a little genius when he came to Riversdale. He's a dear old
man, Agnes," Bertie added, turning in search of sympathy from his
brother's gloomy face.

"I don't like any one who knew us when we were rich to see us now,"
Eddie cried suddenly. "They must despise us!"

"Eddie," Agnes cried, a world of reproach in her voice, and sudden tears
in her soft eyes, on hearing what he had said, "Eddie dear, how can you
say so? how can you ever think such dreadful things? as if it matters a
bit whether people are rich or poor, so long as they do right!"

[Illustration: "AGNES ... AFTERWARDS JOINED THEM" (_p. 224_).]

"But we're not poor," Bertie cried exultantly: "that's the fun of it!
Why, we have everything we want, haven't we? Everything," he repeated,
with a comprehensive glance all round, and an eloquent wave of his
somewhat tarry hands. "Why, we're never cold or hungry, or anything.
Eddie should come to the City for a while, if he wants to see poor
people. Why, I know a fellow in a warehouse near us--Watts his name
is--who has only one arm, and gets eighteen shillings a week. He has a
wife and a number of children, and he has to walk four miles every
morning to work, and four home again, because he can't afford fourpence
for a 'bus.' Oh, yes!" he continued; "if Eddie wants to know what it is
to be poor, let him come to the City!"

"I thought people in the City were rich," Eddie said, looking interested
for a moment. "Uncle Gregory said you were to make your fortune."

"Yes," Bertie replied, slowly and thoughtfully, "there's a lot of rich
people; but it seems as if there were twenty thousand times more people
very poor. I don't understand it at all."

"Nor I," said Agnes, in a very low voice; "but I agree with you, Bertie:
we're not poor a bit; but oh dear! _I_ was poor before poor papa died;
we often had nothing to eat but bread for days, and such a little mite
of fire. But why didn't