oughts for the Present;'
one of them persevered to the end of the course, the other made an
excuse for absenting himself after two evenings.

Gilbert held seriously in mind the pledge he had given to Egremont to
work for the spread of humane principles. One of those with whom he
often spoke of these matters was Bunce--himself a man made hard to
approach by rude experiences. Bunce was a locksmith; some twelve years
ago he had had a little workshop of his own, but a disastrous marriage
brought him back to the position of a journeyman, and at present he was
as often out of work as not. Happily his wife was dead; he found it a
hard task to keep his three children. The truth was that his domestic
miseries had, when at their height, driven him to the public-house, and
only by dint of struggles which no soul save his own was aware of was
he gradually recovering self-confidence and the trust of employers. His
attendance at Egremont's lectures was part of the cure. Though it was
often hard to go out at night and leave his little ones, he did so that
his resolve might not suffer. He and they lived in one room, in the
same house which sheltered Miss Totty Nancarrow.

On the evening which Egremont spent at Eastbourne, Grail came across
Bunce on the way home from the factory. They resumed a discussion
interrupted a day or two before, and, as they passed the end of Newport
Street, Bunce asked his companion to enter for the purpose of looking
at a certain paper in which he had found what seemed to him cogent
arguments. They went up the dark musty staircase, and entered the room
opposite to Totty's.

'Hollo!' Bunce cried, finding no light. 'What's up? Nellie! Jack!'

It was usual, since the eldest child was at the hospital, for the
landlady to come and light a lamp for the two little ones when it grew
dusk. Bunce had an exaggerated fear of giving trouble, and only sheer
necessity had compelled him to request this small service.

'They'll be downstairs, I suppose,' he muttered, striking a match.

The hungry room had no occupants. On the floor lay a skeleton doll, a
toy tambourine, a whipping-top, and a wried tin whistle. There was one
bedstead, and a bed made up on a mattress laid on the floor. On a round
clothless table stood two plates, one with a piece of bread and butter
remaining, and two cups and saucers. The fire had died out.

A shrill voice was calling from below stairs.

'Mr. Bunce! Mr. Bunce! Your children is gone out