“That cost me four shillings a day, everything included, except a trifle for servants. Candles alone were extras, and I did not burn them very much, for I was glad to go to bed early. Wine I do not take, or that also would have been an extra. You could not live very much cheaper at home.” “How I should like to go!” broke from the lips of Mr. Channing. Hamish came forward. “You must go, my dear father! It shall be managed.” “You speak hopefully, Hamish.” Hamish smiled. “I feel so, sir.” “Do you feel so, also, my friend!” said Dr. Lamb, fervently. “Go forth to the remedy as I did, in the full confidence that God can, and will, send His blessing upon it.” CHAPTER XVIII. -- MR. JENKINS ALIVE AGAIN. The quiet of Sunday was over, and Helstonleigh awoke on the Monday morning to the bustle of every-day life. Mr. Jenkins awoke, with others, and got up--not Jenkins the old bedesman, but his son Joseph, who had the grey mare for his wife. It was Mr. Jenkins’s intention to resume his occupation that day, with Mr. Hurst’s and Mrs. Jenkins’s permission: the former he might have defied; the latter he dared not. However, he was on the safe side, for both had accorded it. Mrs. Jenkins was making breakfast in the small parlour behind her hosiery shop, when her husband appeared. He looked all the worse for his accident. Poor Joe was one whom a little illness told upon. Thin, pale, and lantern-jawed at the best of times--indeed he was not infrequently honoured with the nickname of “scare-crow”--he now looked thinner and paler than ever. His tall, shadowy form seemed bent with the weakness induced by lying a few days in bed; while his hair had been cut off in three places at the top of his head, to give way to as many patches of white plaster. “A nice figure you’ll cut in the office, to-day, with those ornaments on your crown!” was Mrs. Jenkins’s salutation. “I am thinking to fold this broadly upon my head, and tie it under my chin,” said he, meekly, holding out a square, black silk handkerchief which he had brought down in his hand. “That would not hide the patch upon your forehead, stupid!” responded Mrs. Jenkins. “I believe you must have bumped upon the edge of every stair in the organ-loft, as you came down, to get so many wounds!” she continued crossly. “If you ever do such a senseless trick again, you shan’t stir abroad without me or the maid at your back, to take care of you; I promise you that!” “I have combed my hair over the place on my forehead!” civilly replied Mr. Jenkins. “I don’t think it shows much.” “And made yourself look like an owl! I thought it was nothing less than a stuffed owl coming in. Why can’t you wear your hat? That would hide your crown and your forehead too.”