"Good-night to you, cabby," said Jim, who concluded, as he walked up the steps, that the cabman was something of a philosopher. He found the little servant endeavouring to raise one end of his portmanteau, which, being chock full of clothes, boots, books, and instruments, was no light weight. "Don’t trouble," said Jim; "I’ll carry it upstairs." "I really cannot allow you to do that," said Mrs Maybury. "Frank," she added, turning to the boy, "help Mary with Dr Mortimer’s portmanteau." "Shan’t!" said the boy, pouting. "Obey me at once, Frank!" "Shan’t!" repeated the boy, disappearing into the room from which his stepmother had emerged. By way of settling the matter, Jim shouldered the portmanteau. "Kindly go first," he said to Mary, "and show me where my room is." As he was about to ascend the staircase, an immense black cat came stalking along the hall and rubbed itself, purring loudly, against his leg. "What a wonder!" cried Mary. "Tom generally don’t like strangers." "Good old Tom!" said Jim. Then he commenced his ascent of the stairs, Mary preceding and "Tom" following him. Thus guided--and accompanied--he at length reached his bedchamber--a by no means spacious apartment on the second floor. "This was Dr Morgan’s room, sir," said the servant; "it’s to be yours now, sir." "Thank you, Mary," said Jim. Mary lingered. So did the cat. "It’s the room he slept in the night before he--he _died_, sir," she added, fearfully. "Well," said Jim, with a smile, "I suppose he had to sleep somewhere!" "Y--yes, sir--but don’t you mind, sir?" "_Mind_! No, of course not! You can run along now, if you like," he added, proceeding to unstrap his portmanteau. As Jim, after unpacking the peculiar assortment of articles in his portmanteau, indulged in what barbers designate a "wash and brush up," his thoughts naturally turned to the people he was henceforth to live with. He wondered how many of them there were; whether there were any more boys like Master Frank; whether there were any more servants, and, if so, whether they were all as small as Mary; whether there were any more boarders, and, finally, whether this was really the home of the Dora Maybury he had met at the Milverton Street post-office. On this last point, however, he felt pretty certain. To begin with, Jim told himself, it was not probable that there were two pretty Dora Mayburys employed by the London Post Office; and, to end with, the boy Frank bore a most remarkable resemblance to the Dora Maybury Jim had been introduced to. In the dim light of the hall, indeed, the likeness was positively startling. Take that boy’s Etons off and clothe him in a neat black dress, put a wig of woman’s black hair on him, and then, with the angularities of his figure shrouded by the gloom of the hall, there would be presented to view a very good double of Dora Maybury.