all his buttons to see if they were fast.

"Now I'm going to put you up two bottles of camomile tea, and pack them
in the bottom of your box, with an old coffee-cup without a handle. It
just holds the right quantity, and you'll promise me, won't you, Master
Dexter, to take a dose regularly twice a week!"

"Yes; I'll promise you," said Dexter.

"Now, that's a good boy," cried the old lady, getting up and patting his
shoulder. "Look here," she continued, leading him to the box by the
drawers, "I've put something else in as well."

She lifted up a layer of linen, all scented with lavender, and showed
him a flat, round, brown-paper parcel.

"It's not a very rich cake," she said, "but there are plenty of currants
and peel in, and I'm sure it's wholesome."

Even Maria became very much interested in Master Dexter's boots and
shoes, and the parting from the doctor's house for the second time
promised to be very hard.

It grew harder as the time approached, for, with the gentleness of an
elder sister, Helen exercised plenty of supervision over the
preparation. Books, a little well-filled writing-case and a purse, were
among the things she added.

"The writing-case is for me, Dexter," she said, with a smile.

"For you?" he said wonderingly.

"Yes, so that I may have, at least, two letters from you every week.
You promise that?"

"Oh yes," he said, "if you will not mind the writing."

"And the purse is for you," she said. "If you want a little more money
than papa is going to allow you weekly, you may write and ask me."

It grew harder still on the morning of departure, and Dexter would have
given anything to stay, but he went off manfully with the doctor in the
station fly, passing Sir James Danby and Master Edgar on the road.

"Humph!" grunted the doctor. "See that, Dexter!"

"I saw Sir James laugh at you when he nodded."

"Do you know why!"

Dexter was silent for a few minutes.

"Because he thinks you are foolish to take so much trouble over me."

"That's it, Dexter," said the doctor eagerly. "So, now, I'll tell you
what I want you to do."

"Yes, sir?"

"Show him that I'm right and he's wrong." Dexter looked a promise, for
he could not speak just then, nor yet when they had passed through
London that afternoon, reached Longspruce station, and been driven to
the Reverend Septimus Mastrum's house, five miles away among the
fir-trees and sand of that bleak region.

Here the doctor bade him "Good-