ay to a sister, You look stunning
to-night--that is a very slang word, Jack--and she will like it. A
stranger or a new acquaintance may not say a word which would show that
he observes a lady is not attired in a black walking dress."

"And what is the exact degree of intimacy in which one may say as you
denoted, 'Miss Merton, your dress is a most becoming one?'"

"I should say," the girl said gravely, "it might be used by a cousin or
by an old gentleman, a friend of the family."

Then with a laugh she went off to receive the guests, now beginning to
arrive in earnest.

After this Mr. Merton made a point of having an "at home" every fourth
Saturday, and these soon became known as among the most pleasant and
sociable gatherings in the literary and scientific world of Birmingham.

So young Jack Simpson led a dual life, spending twenty-six days of each
month as a pit lad, speaking a dialect nearly as broad as that of his
fellows, and two as a quiet and unobtrusive young student in the
pleasant home of Mr. Merton.

Before a year had passed the one life seemed as natural to him as the
other. Even with his friends he kept them separate, seldom speaking of
Stokebridge when at Birmingham, save to answer Mr. Merton's questions as
to old pupils; and giving accounts, which to Nelly Hardy appeared
ridiculously meagre, of his Birmingham experience to his friends at
home.

This was not from any desire to be reticent, but simply because the
details appeared to him to be altogether uninteresting to his friends.

"You need not trouble to tell me any more, Jack," Nelly Hardy said
indignantly. "I know it all by heart. You worked three hours with Mr.
Merton; dinner at six; some people came at eight, no one in particular;
they talked, and there was some playing on the piano; they went away at
twelve. Next morning after breakfast you went to church, had dinner at
two, took a walk afterwards, had tea at half-past six, supper at nine,
then to bed. I won't ask you any more questions, Jack; if anything out
of the way takes place you will tell me, no doubt."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DOG FIGHT.

Saturday afternoon walks, when there were no special games on hand,
became an institution among what may be called Jack Simpson's set at
Stokebridge. The young fellows had followed his lead with all
seriousness, and a stranger passing would have been astonished at the
talk, so grave and serious was it. In colliery villages, as at school,
th