“Yes, I should like to know. I do not believe that they know at all what you mean. You are too cunning for them. You are going to take some step----” “More than one--many steps. I’m going to London to see all that’s going on--to see life. I told ’em so; and instead of looking curious like you, mother, don’t you see, she knows all about it, and wants me to do it. Mother’s a trump! She is that fond of me, she will do whatever I say.” “The thing is, what are you going to do, Gervase? What do you mean by seeing life?” He laughed longer than ever, and gave her a nudge with his arm. “Oh, get along, Meg!” he said,--“_you_ know.” “No, Gervase; tell me. You have always been a good boy--you are not going to do any harm?” “I never heard it was any harm; it’s what everybody does, and rejoicings about it, and bells ringing, and all that. Don’t you tell--I’m going---- No; I said I wouldn’t say a word, and I won’t. You’ll know when I come back.” “Gervase, you frighten me very much--you wouldn’t deceive your father and mother that love you so.” She drew a long breath of alarm; then added with relief: “But if he is met at the station and taken care of----” “That’s it,” said Gervase. “I’m going to be met at the station, and everything done for me. I’ll never be left to myself any more. I’m not very good at taking care of myself, Meg.” “No,” she cried; “that is quite true. I am so glad you feel that, Gervase. Then you won’t be rebellious, but do what your mother wishes, and what her friend tells you. It will make her so happy.” “Her friend! Who’s her friend?” said Gervase; and then the peal of his laughter arose once more. “I like my own friend best; but my friend and my mother’s friend being just the same, don’t you see?” “Are they the same?” said Mrs. Osborne, thoroughly perplexed. “There ain’t two of them that are going to meet me at the station? No? then there’s only one. And mother’s a trump, and I’ll do everything I’m told, and never be without some one to guide me all my life. And to stand up for me--for I am put upon, Meg, though you don’t seem to see it. I am; and made a jest of; and no money in my pocket; never given my proper place. Meg, how much is mamma going to give me for my pocket-money while I’m away?” “I can’t tell you, Gervase. There will be your travelling money, and probably she will send the rest to---- to be given you when you are in town.” “I ought to have it now in my own pocket,” said Gervase, with a cloud upon his brow. “Do you think a man can go like a man to London town, and no money? They are mad if they think that. Lend us something, Meg--you’ve got a little, and no need to spend it; with everything given you that heart can wish. Why, you never spend a penny! And I’ll pay it all back when I come to my own.”