"you
told my uncle so, I believe. Will you get them more easily in England
than here?"

"I shall no doubt find somebody who will forego the advantages of a
'character' for the sake of a little scholarship," said Stretton, rather
bitterly. "Some schoolmaster, who wants his drudgery done cheap."

"Drudgery, indeed!" said Elizabeth, softly. Then, after a pause--"That
seems a great pity. And you are an Oxford man, too!"

Stretton looked up, "How do you know that?" he said, almost sharply.

"You talked of Balliol last night as if you knew it."

"You have a good memory, Miss Heron. Yes, I was at Balliol; but you will
not identify me there. The truth will out, you see; I was not at Oxford
under my present name."

He thought he should read a look of shocked surprise upon her face; but
he was mistaken. She seemed merely to be studying him with grave,
womanly watchfulness; not to be easily biassed, nor lightly turned
aside.

"That is your own affair, of course," she said. "You have a right to
change your name if you choose. In your own name, I dare say you would
have plenty of friends."

"I had," he answered, gravely, but not, as she noticed, as if he were
ashamed of having lost them.

"And you have none now?"

"Absolutely none."

"Through your own fault?" She wondered afterwards how she had the
courage to ask the question; but, at the moment, it came naturally to
her lips, and he answered it as simply as it was asked.

"No. Through my misfortune. Pray ask me nothing more."

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I ought not to have asked anything. But
I was anxious--for the children's sakes--and there was nobody to speak
but myself. I will say nothing more."

"I shall beg of you," said Stretton, trying to speak in as even a tone
as hers, although the muscles round his lips quivered once or twice and
made utterance somewhat difficult, "I shall beg of you to tell what I
have said to Mr. Heron only; you and he will perhaps kindly guard my
secret. I wish I could be more frank; but it is impossible. I trust
that, when I find employment, my employers will be as kind, as generous,
as you have been to-day. You will tell your uncle?"

"What am I to tell him?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with a
kindly smile in their serene depths. "That you will be here to-morrow at
nine o'clock--or eight, before the day grows hot? Eight will be best,
because the boys get so terribly sleepy and cross, you know, in the
middle of the d