"But Cris has no right to inherit Trevlyn over me." "He has legal right, I suppose," answered George; "at least, he will have it. Make the best of it, Ru. There are lots of things I have to make the best of. I had a caning yesterday for another boy, and I had to make the best of that." Rupert still looked up at the sky. "If it were not for Aunt Edith," quoth he, "I'd run away." "You little stupid! Where would you run to?" "Anywhere. Mr. Chattaway gave me no dinner to-day." "Why not?" "Because Cris carried a tale to him. But it was false, George." "Did you tell Chattaway it was false?" "Yes. But where's the use? He always believes Cris before me." "Have you had no dinner?" Rupert shook his head. "I took some bread off the tray as they were carrying it through the hall. That's all I have had." "Then I'd advise you to make double haste home to your tea," said George, jumping over the stile, "as I am going to do to mine." George ran swiftly across the back fields towards his home. Looking round when he was well on his way, he saw Rupert still leaning on the stile with his face turned upward. Meanwhile the little tatterdemalion had scuffled along to Trevlyn Farm--a very moderately-sized house with a rustic porch covered with jessamine, and a large garden, more useful than ornamental, intervening between it and the high-road. The garden path, leading to the porch, was straight and narrow; on either side rose alternately cabbage-rose trees and hollyhocks. Gooseberries, currants, strawberries, raspberries, and other plain fruit-trees grew amidst vegetables of various sorts. A productive if not an elegant garden. At the side of the house the fold-yard palings and a five-barred gate separated it from the public road, and behind the house were the barns and other outdoor buildings belonging to the farm. From the porch the entrance led direct into a room, half sitting-room, half kitchen, called "Nora's room." Nora generally sat in it; George and his brother did their lessons there; the actual kitchen being at the back of it. A parlour opening from this room on the right, whose window looked into the fold-yard, was the general sitting-room. The best sitting-room, a really handsome apartment, was on the other side of the house. As the girl scuffled up to the porch, an active, black-eyed, talkative little woman, of five or six-and-thirty saw her approaching from the window of the best kitchen. That was Nora. What with her ragged frock and tippet, broken straw bonnet, and slipshod shoes, the child looked wretched enough. Her father, Jim Sanders, was carter to Mr. Ryle. He had been at home ill the last day or two; or, as the phrase ran in the farm, was "off his work." "If ever I saw such an object!" was Nora's exclamation. "How _can_ her mother keep her in that state? Just look at Letty Sanders, Mrs. Ryle!"