will of the desperate humbled little spirit--not any of us, that is to say, but Mr. Sant. _He_ had gauged it, I am sure; and, having set his heart on the boy’s reclamation, was watching with an anxious interest the development of the odd little drama which he had helped to engineer. He visited, of course, in virtue of his office, the gamekeeper’s unhappy wife, who had been forced to betake herself to a mean little tenement in the village, where she eked out the small means remaining to her by washing for the rectory; and though, as yet, the son would hardly notice or be civil to him, the mother did not fail to acquaint him, with many fond tears, of her poor, wild little fellow’s real love and resolution, and of the courage which was determining him to train himself to take the place of the breadwinner they had lost. All of which, I knew, made Mr. Sant the more eager to have the lad recognize him for a friend; only pride stood in the way. For, the truth is, poor Harry’s prestige was gone down to zero. Always owing in some part to the local reputation of his father for a bully and rowdy, the removal of that gentleman had finished what my victory had begun. And now it was the case of the sick lion. The cowardly little jackals who had formerly cringed to him, egged on by their more cowardly elders taunted him with his disgrace. If he retaliated, they overwhelmed him with numbers, or ran, squealing injured righteousness, to appeal against him to their parents. His heart, swelling in his plucky little breast, must often have had a business of it not to let loose the tears; but he had an indomitable soul, and only time and tact could find the way into it. One day Mr. Sant and I, when walking together, came unnoticed upon the rear of such a scene. The victim moved on in front, his head hanging a little, though he would not force his pace an inch to accommodate his tormentors, who followed behind, at a safe distance, hooting and jeering at him. “OO stole the pawtridges! When did ’ee last ’ear from the ’ulks! Why don’t ’ee git your mawther to wash your dirty linen, ’ar-ree?” and such-like insults they bawled. I burned with indignation, and was running to retaliate on my enemy by helping him as he had once helped me, when Mr. Sant seized me with a determined hand, and bent to whisper in my ear-- “He will hate you, if you do. Leave him to fight his own battles.”