ouble. Therefore,
pray write to me at 14, Kirk Street, Wendover Market, where I am now
living with a friend who has been very kind to me. Please give my dear
love to mother, and believe me your truly penitent son,

"Z. THORPE, jun."

Having got through this letter pretty easily, and finding that the
tobacconist's wife was quite ready to write another for him if he
pleased, Zack resolved to send a line to Mr. Blyth, who, as well as he
could calculate, might now be expected to return from the country every
day. On the evening when he had been brought home with the wound in his
head, he had entreated that his accident might be kept a secret from
Mrs. Blyth (who knew his address), in case she should send after him.
This preliminary word of caution was not uselessly spoken. Only three
days later a note was brought from Mrs. Blyth, upbraiding him for never
having been near the house during Valentine's absence, and asking him
to come and drink tea that evening. The messenger, who waited for an
answer, was sent back with the most artful verbal excuse which the
landlady could provide for the emergency, and no more notes had been
delivered since. Mrs. Blyth was doubtless not overwell satisfied with
the cool manner in which her invitation had been received.

In his present condition of spirits, Zack's conscience upbraided him
soundly for having thought of deceiving Valentine by keeping him
in ignorance of what had happened. Now that Mat seemed, by his long
absence, to have deserted Kirk Street for ever, there was a double
attraction and hope for the weary and heart-sick Zack in the prospect
of seeing the painter's genial face by his bedside. To this oldest,
kindest, and most merciful of friends, therefore, he determined to
confess, what he dare not so much as hint to his own father.

The note which, by the assistance of the tobacconist's wife, he now
addressed to Valentine, was as characteristically boyish, and even
childish in tone, as the note which he had sent to his father. It ran
thus:

"MY DEAR BLYTH,--I begin to wish I had never been born; for I have got
into another scrape--having been knocked on the head by a prize-fighter
with a cheese-plate. It was wrong in me to go where I did, I know. But
I went to Mr. Strather, just as you told me, and stuck to my drawing--I
did indeed! Pray do come, as soon as ever you get back--I send this
letter to make sure of getting you at once. I am so mise