come there again, he could fall at once into its customs and rules, and would need very little, if any, instruction from its warders. Just now it seemed more familiar and less formidable to him than the narrow, dirty, squalid street, where his former neighbours lived, and his mother, and little Bess. passage almost at a bound. In an instant his hand was on the latch, and flinging open his mother's door, he rushed in panting, and closed it after him as if fearful of being pursued. He could hardly see for a moment, though there was a candle in the room. But when he looked round, there was his mother lying on the bare sacking of her miserable He had some miles to go, and it was almost dusk when he reached his own neigh-bed, her face pale as death, and her sunken bourhood. But though he was stronger, and eyes, with a famished, ravenous expression better fitted for labour than when he left it in them, fastened eagerly on him. They told three months ago, he did not turn boldly a tale of terrible suffering. It seemed to into the street, whistling some gay tune as David as if he had almost forgotten his he marched along, and calling aloud to this mother's face while he had been in gaol, and neighbour and that, ready for all sorts of that now he saw it afresh, with all the story boyish pranks, and equally ready to render of her pain and anguish printed upon it. He little acts of help and kindness to any one stood motionless, staring at her; and she who needed them. He waited till night fell, | lifted herself upon the bed, and held out her and then went slinking down close to the arms to him. walls, and keeping as much in the shadow as possible. Blackett's door was open, and he dare not face Blackett. He had always held up his head high above Blackett's sons, except Roger, and he knew both father and sons hated him for it. Did the neighbours know that he had been in prison? If they did not, his closely-cropped head, with the hair growing like short fur all over it, would betray him at once. He stood in a dark corner over against the house, watching its inmates pass to and fro. There was old Euclid going in, with his empty basket; it was quite empty, so he must have had a good day; and presently he saw the glimmer of a candle in the garret window. What would Victoria say, when she saw him, and his prison crop, for the first time? He was almost as much afraid of her and Euclid as he was of Blackett. Could he make them believe that he had only been in gaol for begging? Surely they would not be too hard on him for that! Yet he felt the old glow of shame again at the thought of going out to beg. His mother would believe it, and know it to be true. He was longing for the sight of her, but he dare not go past Blackett's open door. The tears smarted under his eyelids as he thought of how soon now he was going to see her. Then a dark dread crossed his mind. He had been away for three months, and suppose his mother should be dead! Oh! if that could be! Dead and buried, and he never to see her again! Oh, Davy! my boy! Davy!" she cried, come to me! come quickly!" With a deep groan, such as is rarely wrung from the lips of a man, the boy flung himself into his mother's arms; and the mother bore the shock of agony it caused her without a cry. He was This was her son, her first-born. the baby who had first lain in her bosom, now so tortured with ceaseless pain, and who had filled her whole heart with love and joy. She could recollect how his father had looked down upon them both, with mingled pride and shyness. She almost forgot her pain in the rapture of fondling him once again. Her shrivelled, wasted hand, whose fingers were drawn up with long years of toil, stroked his poor head, with its prison crop of hair where the baby's flaxen curls had grown; and her lips were pressed again and again to his face. She could not let him go. "I was doin' nothin' but beg for you, mother," he sobbed out at last. face. She lay looking at him with a smile on her So much care had been taken of him gaol that he looked more like a man, or at least gave more promise of growing into a strong, capable man like his father, At length Blackett came out, and stag- than he had ever done whilst he starved on gered up the street towards the enticing scanty fare at home. His face, too, had lost spirit vaults at the corner. Now was the its boyish carelessness, and wore an air of moment. He crept cautiously to the en-thought, almost of gloom, such as sat on most trance, and then darted through the lighted men's faces. Maybe I ought to ha' gone into the House," she said, as her eyes caught sight of David's short, dark hair; "it's bad for folks to say you ever went a-beggin', and was took up for it. But I never knew nobody go into the House as I should like to be with, or have Bess be with. Most of the folks as have gone out of our street 'ud shame the bad place itself; and it 'ud be worse than dyin' to live among 'em all day, and all night too. I always said, and I promised father when he was dyin', I swore a oath to him, as long as I could stand at a tub I'd never mix myself up with such a lot, or let his boy and girl go among 'em. But maybe I ought to ha' given in instead of lettin' you go a-beggin'," she added, with a profound sigh. "No, no, mother; don't you fret about me," answered David. "Why, I've learnt a trade in there," he said, avoiding the name gaol, “and I know how to work now, and I'll keep you and Bess. Sometimes I used to think, s'pose they'd only taught me outside, without goin' inside that place! I'd have learnt it with more heart, and never got the bad name as folks will give me now. I can mend boots and shoes prime; and I can read and write almost like a scholar. But I shall never get over being in there!" "Oh! you will, you will, my lad," cried his mother, faintly and sadly. "No, I can't never forget it," he said, with a look of shame and sorrow on his face. "Father's name was always good, and mine never can be. Mother, if they'd only tried to find out if I spoke true ! But they didn't take no time or trouble. I didn't know where I was afore the magistrate said, 'Three months!' and they bundled me away, as if I weren't worth taking trouble about. I'm a gaol-bird now." No, no," sobbed his mother. "That's what the neighbours 'ill call me," he went on," and Blackett 'ill crow over me. They'll never believe I was only beggin'. I feel as if I couldn't hold my head up to face them; or Bess. or Bess. Where's Bess, mother?" But as he spoke Bess came in, and with a cry of delight ran to him, and flung her arms round his neck. He could not rid himself of those clinging arms, and he burst into a passion of weeping as Bess kissed him again and again. 'They were wicked, cruel people as sent you to gaol, Davy," she repeated, over and over again; "cruel and wicked, cruel and wicked!" It was some minutes before they could speak to one another in any other words, or before Bess remembered on what errand she had been absent when David came home. “They can't let us have the ring this evening, mother," she said, after a while; " Mr. Quirk's away till this time to-morrow, and Mrs. Quirk says as she daren't part with any o' the rings without him." "What ring?" asked David. "We were forced to part with it, Davy," said his mother, in a pleading tone, as if to justify herself to him." I'd clemmed myself till I could bear it no longer, and everythink else was gone. It was the last time I set foot out o' doors; I carried it myself to Mr. Quirk's and swore as I'd redeem it. And Bess there has earned money to redeem it, and we thought we'd get it back to-night. But you're come back instead, my lad; and I can bear to go without the ring.' His mother's wedding-ring had been all his life to him a sacred thing; the only sacred thing he knew of. It was blended with all his earliest childish thoughts of his dead father, whom he had never known; but of whom his mother talked so often, of an evening when work was done and she wore the ring, and when the glimmer of it in the dim fire-light made it visible, though almost all else was in darkness. All the inherent superstition and reverence for sacred symbols common to our nature, centred for David in his mother's wedding-ring. He knew what straits of gnawing hunger Bess and his mother must have undergone before they would part with it; and his bitterness and heaviness of heart, for he had left gaol in bitterness and heaviness of heart, were increased tenfold by this loss of her ring. "We'll have it to-morrow," he said, in a stern and passionate voice. Yet they were on the whole happy that evening: it was so much to be together again. Bess had plenty to tell of her daily tramps. through the streets; and David talked of his plans for the future; whilst their mother listened to them, thankful beyond all words to have her boy in her sight once more. Even during the night, when she heard him turning uneasily to and fro on the scanty heap of straw they had managed to get for him to lie on, so hard to him after his comfortable hammock and warm rug in the gaol, her heart felt lighter than it had done for many months. Her poverty continued, her sore pain was not less agonizing, but David was at home again, and life was once more dear to her. CHAPTER IX.—BROKEN-HEARTED. BESS was up as usual in the morning, and David would have gone with her, but for Euclid. He shrank from meeting any of the neighbours; and if it had been possible he would have remained indoors till his hair had grown long again. All the day he stayed. in the dark, unwholesome room, talking at times with his mother, but generally sitting silent, with his head resting on his hands. The hours seemed endless. Hunger and cold he had borne with courage and he could do so still; but shame he could not bear. Pride in a good name was the only moral lesson he had been taught; and his good name was gone. His mother had sympathy enough to guess what troubled him, but she did not know how to comfort him. There was a vague indistinct feeling in their minds that he had not forfeited his good name; he had been robbed of it. At last evening came, and Bess went out again to redeem the precious pledge. Both David and his mother forgot their troubles for a brief space of time as they thought of seeing it shine once more on her hand, so wasted and shrivelled now, and so different from the firm young hand that had first worn it. It had been a brand new ring when David Fell bought it-no other would satisfy the proud young artisan-a thick, heavy ring of gold, such as the finest lady in the land might wear. "It's here, mother!" cried Bess, running in almost breathless, with the small, precious packet in her hand. David lighted the candle, and held it beside his mother, as her trembling fingers unfolded the paper in which it was wrapped. But what was this? A thin, battered ring, worn almost to a thread. No more like the one they all knew so well, than this bare and desolate room was like the pleasant house David Fell had provided for his young wife. Mrs. Fell uttered a bitter cry of disappointment and dread. "Oh, Davy," she cried, "it isn't mine it isn't mine!' In two minutes from that fatal cry of despair, David, panting, bare-headed, nearly mad with passion, stood on the pavement in front of the pawnshop. There was no need to enter it, for Mr. Quirk was pacing to and fro in front of his premises, inviting the passer-by to inspect his goods. He was a short, undersized, knavish-looking man. David confronted him with a white face and dilating nostrils, holding out the ring to him. "It isn't mother's," he gasped; "you've give Bess somebody else's ring. This ain't mother's ring." "That's Mary Fell's ring," drawled Mr. Quirk, sneeringly, and as coolly as if he had prepared himself for the charge, “as she pledged here to me, two months ago. That's her ring." "Give me my mother's own ring!" shouted David, every nerve and muscle tingling with all the force and energy he had in him, "give me her ring, you swindling thief!" "It's Mary Fell's ring," repeated the pawnbroker stubbornly, "and Mary Fell's well known as a thief and a drunkard, and something worse!" Scarcely had the words against his mother's good name been pronounced, before David had flung himself in his rage, and the unusual vigour he had brought from gaol, upon the puny man, who was unprepared for the attack. The boy and the man were not ill-matched, and blow after blow was given. The battered old ring fell to the pavement, and was A circle of spectrodden under their feet. tators gathered as if by magic about them in an instant, none of whom cared to interrupt the sport such a contest afforded. There were cries and cheers of encouragement on all hands, until the combatants fell, David uppermost. "What's all this about?" inquired a policeman, elbowing his way through the crowd, and calmly looking on for a minute, whilst David still struck hard at his enemy, who was struggling up to his feet. The policeman seized the lad by the collar, and he tried to shake off his hold, as he faced the pawnbroker, blind and deaf with rage. "Give me my mother's ring!" he shouted. "I give him in charge," said Mr. Quirk, welcoming the policeman's interference; whilst David felt an awful thrill of despair run through him as he saw whose hand was grasping him. "I was a-doin' nothing, and he up and at me like a tiger," added the pawnbroker. "Ay, he did; I saw him," cried a woman standing at the pawnshop door. "He's a young gaol-bird; everybody can see that." It was only too plainly to be seen. David was now standing perfectly still in the policeman's grip-pale and frightened, with a hangdog air which told powerfully against him. One of the passers-by, an intelligent, welldressed mechanic, pressed forward a little, asking, "Why did you meddle with the man? What's this about a ring?" But the policeman checked David's attempts to reply. 'That's no business of mine," he said sharply. "You give this lad in charge?" He addressed himself to Mr. Quirk, who replied plaintively— 'I'm a householder and a ratepayer," he said, "and I give him in charge.” "Then you'll make your defence before the court," said the policeman to David. "Come along with you!" David glanced round the cluster of faces hemming him in. Some of them he knew. Blackett was there, grinning triumphantly, and Roger was peeping behind him, half afraid of being caught by his father. Euclid had stopped for a moment, with his basket on his arm, and was looking on with an amazed and puzzled face. David dared not call upon any of them by name, but he cried out, in a lamentable voice which touched and startled many of the careless on-lookers "Will somebody tell my mother what's befell me?" He saw Roger make him a sign that he had heard and would fulfil his request, before he was marched off to the police-station, to pass a night there-no longer a strange and unprecedented occurrence to David. thief, and a drunkard, and worse; and David couldn't stand it. I'd ha' had a cut at him too, but he had him down on his back in a moment's time; and he fought for you like a good un!" "But where is he?" gasped the mother, as her eyes, glistening with terror, turned. towards the door, where Bess was standing, as though waiting to let David in and close it safely after him. 'He's took to gaol, you know," answered Roger, with an oath such as he had learned "There was a when he could first speak. bobby up afore I could give him warnin', pushin' through everybody; and old Quirk gave him in charge, and they walked him off to the station, to be shut up all night till tomorrow mornin'. And he shouted, ‘Somebody tell my mother what's befell me!' And he looked straight at me, and I came off at wunst. Perhaps they'll let him go free in the mornin'!" But even Roger's unaccustomed eyes could see the deathlike pallor and change that came over the face of David's mother, as she heard what he had to say. She uttered no word or cry, but sank down again on her miserable death-bed, and turned her despairing face to the wall. Bess sent away Roger, and carefully putting out the candle, crept on to the sacking beside her, and laying her arm gently across her, spoke hopefully of David being released, and Quirk punished, as soon as the truth was known. But Mrs. Fell was at last broken-hearted, and answered not a word, even to little Bess, who fell asleep at last, Bess had set the door of their room a little ajar, and was waiting anxiously for David's return. Her mother had not ceased to sob over her lost ring from the moment when she had caught sight of the worn-out, battered thing which had been exchanged for her own. Her grief was the more keen as she had little hope of David recovering the right one. She had heard of other women having their wed-crying softly to herself. ding-rings changed, or "sweated," and never being able to right themselves, and she could not bear to think of some other woman, happier than herself, wearing it as her weddingring, and prizing it as she had done. A thousand dim memories and inarticulate thoughts centred in the lost ring, none the less real, perhaps, because the poor widow was only an ignorant woman, and could not express her feelings in language. She lay moaning in utter hopelessness and helplessness, knowing too well it was lost for ever. Before even they could expect David back, Roger ran in, breathless and stammering. The candle was still burning, and they could see his agitated face and his excited gestures plainly. "He's bein' took to gaol again!" he exclaimed, in broken sentences. "I see him all along. He up and at old Quirk as brave as a bulldog. He had him down on the ground in no time. He'd said as you was a Who can tell how long the hours of that night were? Darkness without, and within. the utter blackness of despair! The craving hunger of disease, and the soul's hunger after the welfare of her children! The chilly dew of death, and the icy death-blow dealt to every lingering hope for them! When Bess awoke and bestirred herself early in the morning, her mother still lay speechless, and she dared not leave her. Euclid started on his day's work alone. There was no one she could ask for help; so she set about her little tasks of lighting a handful of fire, and making a cup of tea for her mother, which she could not persuade her to touch. It was a dark and dreary winter's morning; so dark where she was living that she could scarcely see her mother's face. The afternoon was fast fading into night, another night of misery and despair, when Roger stole softly in, and crept gently up to the side of the bed where David's mother |