When at last the jug was empty, and Uncle Isaac was full, he leaned back in his chair, and for some minutes exercised his lips in strange workings and twistings, with many incidental clicks and sucks and fizzes, while he benignantly contemplated the angle of the ceiling. When at last the display flagged, he brought his gaze gradually lower, till it rested on the diminished piece of bacon. “None so bad, that bacon,” he observed, putting his head aside with a critical regard. “Though p’raps rayther more of a breakfast specie than a supper.” He laid his head to the other side, as one anxious to be impartial. “Yus,” he went on thoughtfully, “more of a breakfast specie, as you might say.” Then after a pause, he added, with the air of one announcing a brilliant notion:—“I b’lieve—yus, I do b’lieve I’ll try a bit for breakfast to-morrer mornin’!” “If you like, uncle,” Nan answered, a little faintly. “But—but-” timidly—“I was thinking p’raps it’ll make it look rather small to—to put on the counter.” “So it would—so it would,” Uncle Isaac admitted frankly; and indeed the remaining piece was scarce of four rashers’ capacity. “Pity to cut it, as you say, Nan. Thanks—I’ll just wrop it up as it is. It’ll come in for Monday too; an’ that large bit o’ streaky’ll look a deal more nobler on the counter.” Uncle Isaac’s visit swept away the day’s profits and a trifle more. But certainly, Uncle Isaac must not be offended now that things looked so gloomy ahead. Bessy lay, and strained her wits far into the night, inventing comfortable theories and assurances, and exchanging them with her mother for others as hopeful. But in the morning each pillow had its wet spot. XII. BUT Monday saw another beginning. Johnny must rise soon after five now, to reach his work at six; but on this, the first morning, he was awake and eager at half-past four. Early as he was, his mother was before him, and as he pulled his new white ducks over his every-day clothes he could hear her moving below. Nan May was resolved that the boy should go out to begin the world fed and warm at least, and as cheerful as might be. For this one morning Johnny felt nothing of the sleepy discomfort of any house in pitch dark a little before five. Two breakfasts were ready for him, one for the present moment (which he scarce touched, for he was excited), and another in a basin and a red handkerchief, for use at the workshop, with a new tin can full of coffee. For the half-hour allowed for breakfast would scarce suffice for the mere hurrying home and hurrying back again; and the full hour at midday would give him bare time for dinner with his mother.