and sore
at heart. He had during his walk fought a hard battle with himself, and
had conquered. As his temper cooled down he had felt that he had broken
his promise, that he had not been kind to his mother; felt, too, that
her accusation was a true one--he would not have dared to speak so to
her had his father been alive.

"But it was so different then," he had said to himself as the tears
chased each other down his cheeks. "Father understood me, and cared
for me, and made allowances. It was worth while fighting against one's
temper just to have him put his hand on my shoulder and say, 'Well done,
my boy.' Now it is so different. I will go on trying for his sake; but I
know it's no good. Do what I will, I can't please her. It's my fault, I
dare say, but I do try my best. I do, indeed, father," he said, speaking
out loud; "if you can hear me, I do, indeed, try to be kind to mother,
but she won't let me. I do try to make allowances, that is, when I am
not in a passion, and then I go and spoil it all, like a beast, just as
I did tonight.

"Anyhow," he said to himself as he turned his face homeward again, "I
will go and tell her I am sorry, and beg her pardon. I don't suppose she
will be nice, but I can't help that. It's my duty anyhow, and I will try
and not say anything against Foxey next time she speaks of him."

The latter part of his resolution Ned found it very hard to maintain,
for Mr. Mulready became a not unfrequent visitor. He had always some
excuse for calling, either to bring in a basket of fresh trout, some
game, or hothouse fruit, for, as he said, he knew her appetite was
delicate and needed tempting, or some book newly issued from the London
press which he was sure she would appreciate.

After a short time Mrs. Sankey ceased to speak of these visits, perhaps
because she saw how Ned objected to the introduction of Mr. Mulready's
name, perhaps for some other reason, and a year passed without Ned's
being seriously ruffled on the subject.

Ned was now nearly sixteen. He had worked hard, and was the head boy at
Porson's. It had always been regarded as a fixed thing that he should
go into the army. As the son of an officer who had lost his leg in the
service it was thought that he would be able to obtain a commission
without difficulty, and Squire Simmonds, who had been a kind friend
since his father's death, had promised to ask the lord lieutenant of
the county to interest himself in the matter, and had no d