id her prayers, she laid herself down to sleep trustfully and
patiently, while Cecil was tossing and tumbling about, feeling as if
everybody except Jessie were against him.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

A BACHELOR'S LUNCH.

THE bells were ringing for Sunday Morning Prayer at Wilbourne Church,
and the congregation was pouring in at the large west door, and the
choir boys taking the little path towards the vestry, when Mr. Yorke,
the tall curate, opened the small side gate, which was his nearest
entrance to the churchyard.

He was passing quickly along, when he caught sight of a boy leaning over
the paling a little beyond the gate, in rather a disconsolate attitude;
and first he paused for a minute, and then struck across the grass and
laid his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder.

'Come in with me, Cecil,' he said in his most cheery tone--knowing that
the lad usually formed one of the choir when at home, and thinking that
his ill success at school had made him shy of facing the other
choristers, who probably knew all about it by this time.

'No, I mustn't,' said Cecil, turning round abruptly and colouring very
much.

Mr. Yorke was surprised, and showed it. Knowing that Cecil's general
conduct at school had been very good, he had not thought that exclusion
from the choir would have formed part of his punishment.

'It's not because of _that_,' said the boy, reading his thoughts in his
open, kindly face, 'at least not of that alone; it's because I don't say
I'm sorry, and behave as I'm expected to behave. But oh, if father
knew----'

He broke off and turned his face away; but Mr. Yorke, who liked the boy
well, and had one of those sympathetic natures that can feel for
everybody's troubles, was touched by the bitter, hopeless tone.

'Suppose you come home with me after service, and spend the rest of the
day with me,' said he, feeling it might really do the boy good to have
his Sunday free from the sort of atmosphere of disgrace which he felt or
fancied surrounded him at home.

He could see that Cecil caught at the notion, by the eager way in which
he looked up; though the answer was,

'Thank you; but perhaps father wouldn't like it.'

'I don't think he will mind; I'll ask him myself. Don't suppose I'm
inviting you to any great treat: cold mutton and bread and marmalade are
about all that I have to offer. I don't like to keep my landlady from
church.'

'Oh, thanks,' said Cecil, laughing, not at all a