"How will it be," said Mrs. Pamflett, not in the slightest way ruffled, "when you're laid up a week at a time, and can't go to London to attend your customers? It will happen; I know what lumbago is. Once get it into your bones, there's no driving it out." "It isn't in my bones; it's only a slight attack. I can walk now if I please. See; I can stand up straight, and--Oh! oh!" Down he fell again, and when Mrs. Pamflett attempted to assist him he screamed out, "Let me be! let me be! You're twisting me wrong! You want to kill me!" Presently, when there was less need for his comical physical contortions, which did not elicit from Mrs. Pamflett either a smile or the slightest expression of sympathy, she returned to the attack. "Jeremiah is the very person you want. If you don't have him, I shall obtain another situation for him, and then you will lose a treasure." "A treasure!" he retorted, scornfully. "Of course: every cock crows on its own dunghill. Jeremiah's a precious stone, eh? A very precious stone!" "He is. He's the brightest, cleverest lad you've ever come across." "Ah," he said, with a cunning cock of his head; "but we don't want'm too clever; do we?" "He will do everything you want done in the way you wish," said Mrs. Pamflett, calmly; "and if that doesn't content you, nothing will. He writes well, as you have seen; he knows all about book-keeping; and he's as sharp as a needle." "Takes after his mother?" observed Miser Farebrother, with a sardonic leer. "No; I was never very clever, I've missed things. He won't, being a man. I'm glad I didn't have a girl. As a rule, I hate them." "How about Phoebe?" "She's well enough, but there's not much love lost between us. She don't take to me, and I don't take to her. It's on her side, mostly, not mine. She has nothing to complain of, any more than you have." "Oh, I don't complain," he said, his wary eyes on her. "Perhaps it's as well you don't. You must have somebody here, and you would most likely get some one in my place who'd eat you out of house and home. Female servants are a nice set! Shall I send for Jeremiah? Will you see him here to-morrow?" "Yes," said Miser Farebrother; he was now in bed, and Mrs. Pamflett was tucking him in; "you may send for him. I will see him to-morrow." CHAPTER VI. A VERY SMALL BOY COVERS HIMSELF WITH GLORY. Jeremiah Pamflett presented himself at Parksides at noon. His mother was waiting for him at the gates. A pale, self-possessed woman, upon whose face, to the ordinary observer, was never seen a sign of joy or sorrow, in whose eyes never shone that light of sympathy which draws heart to heart, she became transformed the moment her son appeared. She ran toward him; she pressed him in her arms; she kissed him again and again. "My boy! my boy!" she murmured. "Mother," said Jeremiah, "you're rumpling my collar, and you wrote to me to make myself nice."