t had not occurred to him to do so. Moreover,
Mrs. Button had made no attempt to improve his forlorn aspect, for the
simple reason that she had never heard of the Sunday-school treat. It
was part of Paul's philosophy to dispense, as far as he could, with
parental control. On Sunday afternoons the little Buttons played in the
streets, where Paul, had he so chosen, might have played also: but he
put himself, so to speak, to Sunday school, where, besides learning
lots of queer things about God and Jesus Christ which interested him
keenly, he could shine above his fellows by recitations of collects and
bits of Catechism, which did not interest him at all. Then he won
scores of good-conduct cards, gaudy treasures, with pictures of Daniel
in the Lions' Den and the Marriage of Cana and such like, which he
secreted preciously beneath a loose slab in the scullery floor. He did
not show them to his mother, knowing that she would tear them up and
bang him over the head; and for similar reasons he refrained from
telling her of the Sunday-school treat. If she came to hear of it, as
possibly she would through one of the little Buttons, who might pick up
the news in the street, he would be soundly beaten. But there was a
chance of her not hearing, and he desired to be no more of a blight
than he could help. So Paul, vagabond and self-reliant from his
babyhood, turned up at the Sunday-school treat, hatless and coatless,
his dirty little toes visible through the holes in his boots, and his
shapeless and tattered breeches secured to his person by a single
brace. The better-dressed urchins moved away from him and made rude
remarks, after the generous manner of their kind; but Paul did not
care. Pariahdom was his accustomed portion. He was there for his own
pleasure. They were going to ride in a train. They were going to have a
wonderful afternoon in a nobleman's park, a place all grass and trees,
elusive to the imagination. There was a stupefying prospect of wondrous
things in profusion to eat and drink-jam, ginger-beer, cake! So rumour
had it; and to unsophisticated Paul rumour was gospel truth. With all
these unexperienced joys before him, what cared he for the blankety
little blanks who gibed at him? If you imagine that little Paul
Kegworthy formulated his thoughts as would the angel choir-boy in the
pictures, you are mistaken. The baby language of Bludston would petrify
the foc'sle of a tramp, steamer. The North of England is justly pro