n for the poor boy was scarcely less than ours,
had relieved Jack at the patient's bedside. Jack, who, now that the
imminent anxiety was over, had given way to a natural reaction, was, I
could see, in a terrible state of misery and rage.

"If he dies," muttered he to me, "I'll--"

What he meant to say I do not know. He stopped short and flung himself
in the empty seat by the window, trembling all over. I had never known
before how fond he was of the poor boy.

"What about his mother?" he said presently, turning to me.

"I couldn't find her, or hear of her anywhere," I said. "But I left a
message for her."

Just then my uncle beckoned with his hand.

Billy had opened his eyes, and was looking about him. He had done so
once or twice before, but always in a vacant, stupid sort of way. Now,
to our intense joy, there was a glimmer of something like the old life
in his pale face, especially when, catching sight of Jack, who sprang to
his side in a moment, his features broke into a faint smile.

My uncle came quietly to me across the room.

"I'll go now," said he--more kindly than I had ever heard him speak. "I
shall stay in town to-night, and will look in in the morning;" and so
saying he went.

Mr Smith and I accompanied him to the door. As we were returning up
the stairs some one called after us. I turned, and saw that the new-
comer was Billy's mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

HOW I GOT RID OF THE PETTY-CASH, AND OF MR. SMITH'S SECRET.

Billy's mother was, for the first time in my experience, sober. I
stayed behind for her on the stairs, while Mr Smith retired to his own
room, saying he would come up and see us all in the morning. I wished
he would have stayed and countenanced me in my interview with the
unhappy woman.

"What's all this, mister?" she said, as she came up.

Once, possibly, Billy's mother might have been a handsome and even
attractive woman, but drink had defaced whatever beauty she once had,
and had degraded her terribly, as it always does, both in body and mind.

"Billy has been badly hurt," I said, "and we thought you ought to come."

"Who hurt him?" she demanded.

There was no sympathy or even concern in her tone. She spoke like a
person to whom all the world is an enemy, in league to do her wrong.

"There was a struggle," I said. "A man was hitting Mr Smith--"

"Mr Smith!" she exclaimed, fiercely; "who's he--who's Mr Smith?"

"Why, my friend who sometimes goes to s