“By what? Do you call that an accident?” growled the parson, to get at the boy’s meaning. “An accident done a-purpose,” chimed in Mrs. Clowes, whilst her scales jingled, and she and her helper weighed out her commodities for the people at the counter. “Yes, sir,” answered Jabez, composedly; “it must have been an accident. I don’t think they really could mean to push me over. I think they only meant to frighten me——” “Well?” queried Joshua, seeing that he hesitated. “I think one of them slipped, and let go, and then I slipped too, sir,” he replied, modestly. “Slipped, indeed! You’d very nearly slipped into the next world!” exclaimed the parson. “I suppose you’ll say next that my poor old father was dragged about by the young wretches by accident too?” The colour of Jabez rose. “No, sir; that was very cruel.” “Oh, you do call some things by their right names (here, let that woman pass out). I suppose you’re glad enough the rascals have got their deserts?” A dubious change came over the boy’s face. He did not answer at once; he hardly knew his own feelings on the subject. The question was repeated. “Well, sir, I’m glad they won’t be there to torment me any more, but it must be a very dreadful thing for a young gentleman to be turned out of school in disgrace, and I don’t think I _ought_ to be glad of that. I should never get over it, if it was me.” “Here, take your basket, and be off with you!” said Joshua Brookes, hurrying him out of the shop, that he might stay and rate the old woman for “spoiling young Cheat-the-fishes,” conscious all the while that he had been doing his best to get the lad a good home in the future. Bess and Simon received him with open arms, glad not only to see him well again, but thankful he had been placed where he was secure from the bitter want which pinched both their stomachs and their faces. To them Mrs. Clowes’ basket brought what they had not seen for months—a white loaf and a good lump of cold meat, to say nothing of a tiny paper of tea, and some sugar—those luxuries of the rich—and half-a-crown in another paper. How those half-famishing hard-workers, whose home had been denuded of their goods to keep life within them, thanked cross old Mrs. Clowes! She had made it a festival to them indeed, and all for the sake of the boy they had kept. There were no pigeons—these had been sold long ago to pay for provisions, though much against Simon’s will. The cat was there, lean and gaunt; it managed to pick up a subsistence somehow; and the big Bible was there—Simon had not parted with that, though the bright bureau was gone, ay, and the cradle which had been an ark to the orphan.