days in the classroom quite unconscious of what was going
on around him. He worked mechanically, living in a strange world of his
own creation, usually waking up to find himself at the foot of the class
with Peter smiling at the top.

Often he went hungry, for times were still hard, and the family had
increased to six. It was a bitter struggle in which Mrs. Sinclair was
engaged to try and feed--let alone clothe--her hungry children. Patient,
plodding, and terrible self-sacrifices alone enabled her to accomplish
what she did. It was always a question of getting sufficient food rather
than aiming at any particular kind. It was quantity rather than quality
that was her biggest problem, for the children had sharp appetites and
could make a feast of the simplest material. A pot of potatoes, boiled
with their "jackets" on, tumbled on to the center of the bare, uncovered
table and a little salt placed in small heaps at the exact position
where each person sat, a large bowl of butter-milk when it could be got,
with a tablespoon for each with which to lift a spoonful of the milk,
and thus was set the banquet of the miner's family.

"Mither, Rob's taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o' tattie," little
Mary would say.

"Ay, an' what did you do?" Robert would reply. "When you thought naebody
was lookin', you took three spoonfu' to yae wee tattie. I was watchin'
you."

"Now that'll do," the mother would admonish them. "Try and make it gang
as far as ye can. Here you!" she would raise her voice to another,
"dinna be so greedy on it. The rest maun get some too." At this the
guilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking more
than his share.

Robert's dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordid
surroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of his
imagination. Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a place
for him to fill in the hearts of men. Vague stirrings told him of great
future events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled his
body.

One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all at
play, Robert and Peter again came into conflict. Some girls were playing
at a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedly
looking on. He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and already
the sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in every
dream. Mysie's modesty and grace appealed to him and the strange
magnetic pow