"I'm not teasing of him, mother," said Dick aloud; "only it's a pity to have to boil him all at once, instead of by degrees. Here, get out the cold tea, mother, and let's take to drinking--have a miserable day, and enjoy ourselves. Jessie, my gal, you'll rust that machine raining on it like that. Come, mother, rouse up; it'll all come right in the end." "I was not crying, Dick," said Mrs Shingle,--"not much." "Yes, you were," he cried, with a rollicking air of gaiety. "I saw two drips go on your apron and one in that child's shoe. Come, cheer up." There was a pause then, during which all again tried hard to work; but the knowledge that they were about to turn out of the little home, and that their prospects were so bitter, combined with sorrow for their child, made a sob or two burst from Mrs Shingle's breast, while even the boy kept on sniffing. "Here, I can't stand this," groaned Dick at last, getting up and walking about the room. "I don't spend no money, mother--only a half-ounce or two of tobacco for myself, and one now and then for poor old Hopper, who seems to be cutting us now we are so down. You don't spend much, mother: and it's as true as gorspel about shoemakers' wives being the worst shod; while as for me, I haven't had a real new pair this ten years." "Don't take on about it, Dick," said Mrs Shingle, making a brave effort to smile. And she took and patted her husband's hand affectionately. "I wouldn't care, mother, if things were better for you two; and I can't see as it's my extravagance as does it." "Oh, no, no, Dick dear." "One half-pint of beer this month, and it's the beer as is the ruin of such as me," he said, with a comical look--"and one screw of tobacco this week, and the paper as was round it, for thickness, why, it was like leather." "Don't, don't mind, Dick," whispered Mrs Shingle. "We'll sell the things, and clear ourselves, and start free again." "It's all right, mother," he cried, with a kind of gulp. "It's got to the worst pitch now--see if it ain't. Don't make it rain indoors," he added, in a remonstrating tone; "'specially when we've only one umbrella in the house, and it's broke. Here, Jessie, my gal, what's that song you sing about the rain?" "`There's sunshine after rain,' father," said Jessie, looking up in so piteous a way that Dick had hard work to keep back a sob; but with another struggle to drive off his cares, he cried-- "To be sure. `There's sunshine after rain, my boys; there's sunshine after rain,'" he sang, making up words, and a peculiar doleful tune of his own, as he set-to again and hammered vigorously at a piece of leather. "Work away, Union Jack, and sing, you dog--`There's sunshine af--aft--after--'" The hammer fell at his feet, and he rose once more. "Go away, Jack, my boy," he said, in a different tone of voice. "No, no, master: don't send me back," cried the boy passionately. "I'm very sorry; and I'll try so--so very hard not to be hungry."