e held out his arms.

"Oh, mother," he said, and it was the first time in all his life that he
had spoken that word to any one. "Mother, do let me hold him."

A warm, stiff bundle was put into his careful arms, and his little
brother instantly caught at his hair. It hurt, but Dickie liked it.

The lady went to one of the carved cabinets and with a bright key from a
very bright bunch unlocked one of the heavy panelled doors. She drew out
of the darkness within a dull-colored leather bag embroidered in gold
thread and crimson silk.

"He has forgot," said Sir Richard in an undertone, "what it was that the
grandfather promised him. Though he has well earned the same. 'Tis the
fever."

The mother put the bag in Dickie's hands.

"Count it out," she said, taking her babe from him; and Dickie untied
the leathern string, and poured out on to the polished long table what
the bag held. Twenty gold pieces.

"And all with the image of our late dear Queen," said the mother; "the
image of that incomparable virgin Majesty whose example is a beacon for
all time to all virtuous ladies."

[Illustration: "IT HURT, BUT DICKIE LIKED IT"

[_Page 157_]

"Ah, yes, indeed," said the father; "put them up in the bag, boy. They
are thine own to thee, to spend as thou wilt."

"Not unwisely," said the mother gently.

"As he wills," the father firmly said; "wisely or unwisely. As he wills.
And none," he added, "shall ask how they be spent."

The lady frowned; she was a careful housewife, and twenty gold pieces
were a large sum.

"I will not waste it," said Dickie. "Mother, you may trust me not to
waste it."

It was the happiest moment of his life to Dickie. The little horse--the
gold pieces.... Yes, but much more, the sudden, good, safe feeling of
father and mother and little brother; of a place where he belonged,
where he loved and was loved. And by his equals. For he felt that, as
far as a child can be the equal of grown people, he was the equal of
these. And Beale was not his equal, either in the graces of the body or
in the inner treasures of mind and heart. And hitherto he had loved only
Beale; had only, so far as he could remember, been loved by Beale and by
that shadowy father, his "Daddy," who had died in hospital, and dying,
had given him the rattle, his Tinkler, that was Harding's Luck. And in
the very heart of that happiest moment came, like a sharp dagger
prick, the thought of Beale. What wonders could be done for Beale