"Well, it strikes me so. I should say he is ill. Why don't you send for his mother to come up?" "So I would, if we had a mother to send for," returned Peter. "Our mother died two years ago; and--and my father has married again. We have no longer any place in the old Somersetshire homestead, Raynor. Fred and I stand alone in the world." "And without means?" cried Charles, quickly; who had lately begun to refer every evil the world contained to the want of money. "Oh, he allows us something. Just enough to keep us going until we have started on our own account. I get a hundred a-year from the place I'm at. Fred gains nothing yet. He is not out of his articles." "Well, I'll come and see him again soon," cried Charley, vaulting off. "Good-night, Peter." Was Fred indeed seriously ill? Was it going to be one of those cases, of which there are too many in London: of a poor young fellow, just entering on the hopeful threshold of life, dying away from friends, and home, and care? Whether caused by Charles's tone or Charles's words, the shadowy thought, that it might be so, entered for the first time into the mind of Peter. And Charles never had "things made pleasant for him," at the office, in pursuance of the friendly wish just expressed: the opportunity was never afforded. Exactly twenty days from that evening, he was invited to attend the funeral of Frederick Hartley. And could not do so, for want of suitable clothes to wear. CHAPTER II. JEALOUSY. The room was smartened up for the occasion. At least, as much as a room furnished with cane-seated chairs, a threadbare carpet not half covering the boards, and a stained green-baize table-cover, can be smartened. It was Mrs. Raynor's birthday. Frank Raynor and his wife had come down to wish her many happy returns of it and to take tea with her; Alice had been invited; Charles had said he would be home early. But tea was over, and neither Charles nor Alice had put in an appearance; and the little fête, without them, had seemed a failure to their mother.