“Well, maybe I’d better be tellin’ him of Dan Doolan’s house at Vauxhall. He’d be with good dacent folk there and they’d not be askin’ a high rint. Here, give me that tray. I’ll fetch down the schoolroom cups for ye, and that’ll give me a chance to speak with him.” Geraghty had always been a favourite in the schoolroom, and Ralph turned to the old fellow now with a hearty appreciation of his kindly thoughtfulness. “We shall all miss you, Mr. Ralph,” he said. “And if I might make so bold as to be giving you the ricommindation of some rooms in London, where they tell me you’re going, I think you’d find them respectable, which is more than can be said for many places. The house belongs to Dan Doolan, that’s my sister’s husband’s uncle, he and his wife are very dacent folk and they would do their utmost for you and give you a warm welcome.” “Trust the Irish for that,” said Ralph, “I’m very much obliged to you, Geraghty, for I hadn’t an idea where to look for lodgings. Come, Evereld, now you will feel much happier about me.” He took down the address, and then, with the help of Geraghty and Bridget and Evereld, the packing was finished and the moment of leave-taking arrived. The butler had carried down the last portmanteau, Bridget had invoked blessings on his head and gone away wiping her eyes with her apron, and the two friends were left in the quiet schoolroom. “Remember your promise,” said Evereld earnestly. “I will remember,” said Ralph. “And after all it is likely enough that we shall meet before that. Courage, dear! Don’t fret. The time will soon pass.” “Here is a book for you to read in the train,” she added, afraid to say much, lest she should break down. “You must have a Dickens to comfort you, and this will be the best, for the wind is very much in the east to-day, as dear old Mr. Jarndyce would have said.” She gave him her own copy of “Bleak House” and Ralph, with a choking sensation in his throat, bent down and kissed the sweet rosy face that was still so childlike. After that, without another word, he left the house, and Evereld, running to her bedroom, watched him until he had disappeared in the distance, then, throwing herself on the bed, cried as though her heart would break. CHAPTER VII “_Is our age an age of genuine pity? I have my doubts. It is pre-eminently an age of bustle, and fuss, and fidget; but I think we are lacking in tenderness._”--Dr. Jessop.