“Yes, sir, he mostly is at work at them. He is very clever, James is, awful clever, and he earns a good deal of money at it too, besides its being a great amusement to him. Poor boy, it’s a heavy life, sir, always to sit in that box of his, with no hope of ever getting any better.” “It must be, indeed, Mrs. Holl. Why, what is this—Colenso’s Algebra—does he read that?” “He do, sir, while he is at work; and when he ain’t he never puts it down.” “He must be fonder of it than I ever was,” Frank laughed. “But this is very interesting, Prescott, is it not?” “If your son is so fond of study, Mrs. Holl,” Arthur said, “I have a number of my old college books. I shall never touch them again. They only block my place up, and he is perfectly welcome to them.” “Lor, sir, it would be just a godsend to him.” “I will look them out, Mrs. Holl, and send them down to-morrow.” “I should take it very kind of you, sir—very kind; and James will be delighted.” “And, Mrs. Holl, I should like some of those wax flowers amazingly; will you ask him to make me some?—a basket of them. Eh, Prescott, don’t you think a basket of wax flowers would be just the thing for my room?” “I don’t know that they would be altogether in strict keeping with its general contents,” Prescott said, smiling, “but no doubt they would look very well.” “Just so,” Frank said. “Will you ask your son to make me a basket, Mrs. Holl? I suppose he can buy a basket and a shade, and all that sort of thing? and you know I will pay him for it all when he sends it.” “James will be very glad, sir; and thank’ee, but he is not my son.” “Is he not, Mrs. Holl? If it is not an impertinent question, what relation is he of yours?” “He ain’t no sort of relation, sir,” the woman said. The young men looked surprised, and Prescott asked— “Then how did you come to bring him up, Mrs. Holl?”