“Certainly you will.” “Good-night, old fellow.” “Good-night, Dering. Take my advice, and don’t sit up reading or anything to-night, but get off to bed as early as you can.” Lionel nodded and smiled, and so they parted. Tom had called at Alder Cottage earlier in the day, and had seen Edith and Mrs. Garside, and had given them their final instructions. He had one other person still to see—Mr. Sprague, the chemist, and him he went in search of as soon as he had bidden Lionel good-night. Mr. Sprague himself came in answer to Tom’s ring at the bell, and ushered his visitor into a stuffy little parlour behind the shop, where he had been lounging on the sofa in his shirt-sleeves, reading Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy.” And a very melancholy, careworn-looking man was this chemist whom Tom had come to see. He looked as if the perpetual battle for daily bread, which had been going on with him from year’s end to year’s end ever since he was old enough to handle a pestle, was at last beginning to daunt him. He had a cowed, wobegone expression as he passed his fingers wearily through his thin grizzled locks: although he did his best to put on an air of cheerfulness at the tardy prospect of a customer. Tom and the chemist were old acquaintances. Sprague’s shop was one of the institutions of Duxley, and had been known to Tom from his early boyhood. Once or twice during his present visit to the town he had called there and made a few purchases, and chatted over old times, and old friends long dead and gone, with the melancholy chemist. “You still stick to the old place, Mr. Sprague,” said Tom, as he sat down on the ancient sofa. “Yes, Mr. Bristow—yes. I don’t know that I could do better. My father kept the shop before me, and everybody in Duxley knows it.” “I suppose you will be retiring on your fortune before long?” The chemist laughed a hollow laugh. “With thirteen youthful and voracious mouths to feed, it looks like making a fortune, don’t it, sir?” “A baker’s dozen of youngsters! Fie, Mr. Sprague, fie!” “Talking about the baker, sir, I give you my word of honour that he and the butcher take nearly every farthing of profit I get out of my business. It has come to this: that I can no longer make ends meet, as I used to do years ago. For the first time in my life, sir, I am behindhand with my rent, and goodness only knows when and how I shall get it made up.” Mr. Sprague’s voice was very pitiable as he finished. “But, surely, some of your children are old enough to help themselves,” said Tom. “The eldest are all girls,” answered poor Mr. Sprague, “and they have to stay at home and help their mother with the little ones. My eldest boy, Alex, is only nine years old.” “Just the age to get him off your hands—just the age to get him into the Downham Foundation School.” “Oh, sir, what a relief that would be, both to his poor mother and me! The same thought has struck me, sir, many a time, but I have no influence—none whatever.”