him out," cried the doctor, directly. "Don't let that bragging
fool in to disturb our sorrow." He opened the door and told the
servant-girl to say "Not at home."

"Not at home," said the girl.

"That's a lie!" shouted Bolt, and shoved her aside and burst into the
room. "None of your tricks on travelers," said he, in his obstreperous
way. "I saw your heads through the window. Good news, my boy! I've done
the trick. I wouldn't say a word till it was all settled, for Brag's a
good dog, but Holdfast's a better. I've sold my building-site to some
gents that want to speculate in a church, and I've made five hundred
pounds profit by the sale. I'm always right, soon or late. And I've
bought a factory ready made--the Star Works; bought 'em, sir, with all
the gear and plant, and working hands."

"The Star Works? The largest but one in Hillsborough!"

"Ay, lad. Money and pluck together, they'll beat the world. We have got
a noble place, with every convenience. All we have got to do now is to
go in and win."

Young Little's eyes sparkled. "All right," said he, "I like this way the
best."

Mrs. Little sighed.

CHAPTER XXX.

In that part of London called "the City" are shady little streets,
that look like pleasant retreats from the busy, noisy world; yet are
strongholds of business.

One of these contained, and perhaps still contains, a public office
full of secrets, some droll, some sad, some terrible. The building had a
narrow, insignificant front, but was of great depth, and its south side
lighted by large bay windows all stone and plate-glass; and these were
open to the sun and air, thanks to a singular neighbor. Here, in
the heart of the City, was wedged a little rustic church, with its
church-yard, whose bright-green grass first startled, then soothed
and refreshed the eye, in that wilderness of stone--an emerald set in
granite. The grass flowed up to the south wall of the "office;" those
massive stone windows hung over the graves; the plumed clerks could not
look out of window and doubt that all men are mortal: and the article
the office sold was immortality.

It was the Gosshawk Life Insurance.

On a certain afternoon anterior to the Hillsborough scenes last
presented, the plumed clerks were all at the south windows, looking at a
funeral in the little church-yard, and passing some curious remarks;
for know that the deceased was insured in the Gosshawk for nine hundred
pounds, and had paid but one premiu