"Well, but now, I've been thinking that it would be better if Theodore would give you that money, instead of paying for my schooling, and for me to get a situation and earn something." "Earn! My darling boy, how could you earn anything?" "Why, mother, I could do all that the office boy did at Oldchester. Old Tuckey told me once that he earned fifteen shillings a-week. Just fancy, mother! That's a good lot, isn't it?" It looked a very childish face that he turned towards his mother: a face with frank, sparkling eyes and rounded cheeks, to which the excitement of making this proposition had brought back the roses. "Oh, Martin, my dearest boy, it is sweet of you to think of this! But you are too young, darling." "I'm going on for thirteen, mother!" interrupted Martin. "Yes, dear; but still even that is very, very young," answered his mother gravely, although the phantom of a smile flitted across her pale face. Martin looked disappointed, and, for a moment, almost angry. He had a naturally hot temper. But he battled down the temptation, and merely said, "Well, mother, you need not decide anything to-night. You can think it over. I believe I could earn something; and I'm sure that if I can, I ought." "But your education, Martin!" "I might, perhaps, go on learning a little at home--in the evenings," he rejoined, but more slowly, and less confidently than he had spoken before. "You know, Martin, _he_ wished you to study. He was so proud of your abilities--so fond of you----" Her voice broke, and she turned away her head. "Yes, mother; but he was fonder of you," answered Martin simply. "I know quite well that if father could speak to me now, this minute, he would say, 'Martin, take care of your mother.' That's what he _did_ say one day when I was alone with him, only a week before----" The boy paused, made a violent struggle to master his emotion, and then went on bravely, though his young face grew white to the lips, "And I'm going to do it, please God!" The tears that poured down his mother's cheeks as she embraced him and kissed his forehead were not all bitter. "Not desolate--not wholly desolate," she murmered, "while I have you, my precious, precious son!" They sat awhile, talking of their means, and their plans, and their prospects. Mrs. Bransby felt that although many of Martin's notions were, of course, crude and childish, yet there was a strain of firm manliness in him on which she could rely; and the boy had a quick intelligence. Before parting from his mother for the night, he proposed that she should write to Owen Rivers and ask his advice. "You'll believe what Mr. Rivers says, mother, if you don't believe me. And I think you'll find that _he_ will consider it my duty to earn something if I can; anyway, he's such a good fellow, and has such a thundering lot of sense, he's sure to give us good advice."