Christmas and Midsummer vacations came and went, so did those red-letter days of his College life, Easter and Whitsuntide, when he was free to rush to the old yard, so near at hand, and after hugging Bess and Simon, whom he astonished with his learning, could assure himself his dumb family had been well cared for. And if those passing seasons traced deeper lines on Simon’s brow, gave more womanly solidity to Bess’s form and character, they brought no change the foundling could mark. Tom Hulme’s whereabouts was still undiscovered. Matt Cooper was still a widower. But they and his masters could note the steady progress _he_ made, and his chivalrous love of truth and sense of honour shown in many ways in little things. Yet there was one event a grief to him. His little brown linnet pined for its young friend, and died before the first Whitsunday came. He was not much over ten years old when he was proved to possess courage, as well as truth and honour. For some time Nancy, the cook, had observed that the cream was skimmed surreptitiously from the milk-pans in the dairy, that the milk itself was regularly abstracted, and she was loud in complaint. She could scarcely find cream enough to set on the governor’s table, and servants and schoolboys were in turn accused of being the depredators. Complaints were made to Mr. Terry; servants and boys were alike interrogated and watched, and punished on suspicion; but nothing could be proved, and no precautions could save the milk. The lofty and spacious kitchen had its entrance almost under the porch, and close beside it was a flight of stone steps leading to the dairy, a cellar below the kitchen, lit by a small window high up on the side towards the river, and of course opposite to the steps. Stone tables occupied the two other sides, on which were ranged a number of wide shallow pans of good milk. In the extreme corner at right angles with the door at the head of the stairs was another entrance, a small open door in a Gothic frame, which opened on another and shorter flight of steps, cut in the rock and washed by the river, which sometimes rose and beat against the cellar-door for admission, beat so oft and importunately as to wear away the oak where it met the floor. It was nearly breakfast time. Long rows of wooden bowls and trenchers were ranged on the white kitchen-table. The oatmeal porridge was ready to pour out. The cook ran short of milk. Through a window overlooking the yard she espied Jabez, whip in hand, driving a biped team of play-horses. “Jabez, Jabez Clegg!” she called out at the pitch of her voice, “come hither.” Down went the reins, and the prancing steeds proceeded without a driver. “Fetch a can of milk from the cellar, Jabez; an’ look sharp. an’ see as yo’ dunna drink none!” “I never do,” said Jabez, not overpleased at the imputation. “Well, see as yo’ don’t, for some on yo’ do.”