‘Beef-tea—I made it myself. You must have it to keep your strength up now you work so hard, dear.’ George roared with laughter. The idea of his wanting beef-tea to give him strength to sit on a stool and write names out of a directory in a big book! But he scalded his throat with a few spoonfuls of the steaming liquid, just to please his wife. That evening George took Bess out to dinner. Had he not earned ten whole shillings, the first money he had ever earned in his life? Of course he had. Then he had a perfect right to spend fifteen shillings and sixpence at once. The young couple had a cab home that evening. George had earned ten shillings, and surely he could afford half-a-crown for a cab out of it. And before they retired to rest that evening Mr. and Mrs. Smith had taken a charming little villa near town, and George had bought a little pony and a basket-carriage for Bess to drive about in, and they had a delightful garden, beautifully kept, and a little conservatory; and George had condescended to make it up with his father, and had sent him an invitation to come and dine with him at his villa. But this was not done out of the ten shillings. Oh, dear, no. George and Bess were not so foolish as that. This was all arranged in advance out of the thousand a year which George was going to get by-and-by. CHAPTER XII. GOES INTO A LITTLE FAMILY HISTORY. Gertie and Lion were in the middle of their lessons, and the parrot, as usual, was behaving in a most reprehensible manner. English history it treated with absolute contempt, geography it whistled away to the winds, and the ridicule it cast upon the first principles of social morality was deserving of the most severe censure. ‘It is wicked to tell an untruth,’ said Miss Adrian. Lion and Gertie quite agreed with Miss Adrian that it was; but the parrot said, ‘Humbug!’ ‘And it’s wicked to use bad words, Miss Adrian, isn’t it?’ said Gertie, with a withering glance at the objectionable bird. ‘It is, dear,’ answered Miss Adrian, with a smile; ‘but Polly has picked up bad words from hearing other people use them, and this shows us that when we do and say wicked things, we are injuring others as well as ourselves.’ Gertie quite saw that. She felt that her grandfather was responsible to a great extent for the depraved condition of Polly’s mind. ‘Oh, Miss Adrian,’ she said, ‘if grandfather could only hear you and have a few lessons, I’m sure he would be good. I think he doesn’t know it’s wicked.’ Miss Adrian sighed. She was woman of the world enough to have gathered, from Gertie’s innocent confessions, what manner of man this old dog-fancier was. She had divined, far more than the child herself knew, and had long ago felt convinced that this little flower had been reared in a den of thieves.