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Chapter Sixteen

“Now, uncle, what’s the next thing to be done?” said Tom at breakfast that morning.

“I think we may begin the body of the telescope now, Tom,” said his uncle.

“The body?”

“Yes; the speculum is what we might call the life of the whole instrument, and the rest will be simplicity itself. We’ve got to bring a little mechanical work to bear, and the thing is done.”

“But it will want a lot of glasses fixed about in a big tube, won’t it?”

“No; nothing but the flat and eye-pieces, and I have the lenses to make these. By the way, I have some letters to write, and shall be busy all the morning. Your uncle seems to be still unwell, and I must write to him, for one thing. I tell you what I want done. We have no place there for keeping papers or drawings in, and where one can sit down and write at times, and lock up afterwards. I’ve been thinking that I’ll have the big old bureau desk with its drawers taken out of the study, and carried up into the laboratory. It can stand beneath the shelves on the right of the east window; and you might take up a chair or two, and a piece of old carpet as well. Get David to help you.”

“All right, uncle.”

So when breakfast was over, Tom went out and found David, who was sticking stakes along the outside of the asparagus bed, and tying tarred twine from one to the other, so as to keep the plume-like stems from blowing about and breaking.

“Mornin’, Master Tom,” he said. “I say, my Maria Louisas are swelling out fast. We shall soon have to be on the look-out for pear-ketchers.”

“All right, David, I’ll help you. I hope it is Pete Warboys. I should like to give him stick.”

“We’ll give him stake instead, Master Tom.”

“Never mind that now. I want you to help me move that chest of drawers and desk out of uncle’s study to the laboratory.”

“Very good, sir; but you might call a spade a spade.”

“What do you mean?” said Tom, staring.

“Labor hatory, sir! why don’t you say windmill?”

“Because it has been made into an observatory, laboratory, and workshop all in one,” said Tom, rather stiffly.

“Just as you like, Master Tom; but you may take the sails off, and the fan, and put all the rattle-traps in it you like, but it can’t make it anything but what it was born to be, and that was a windmill.”

“Well, we won’t argue,” said Tom. “Come along.”

He led the way to the study, where Uncle Richard was seated at a table writing, and it being a particularly dry day, David spent about five minutes wiping nothing off his shoes on every mat he passed, to Tom’s great amusement. Then after making a bow and a scrape to his master which were not seen, he gave his nose a rub with his cuff, and went back to put his hat outside the door.

“Come along, David,” said Tom. “This is it.”

The gardener went on tiptoe to the end of the old escritoire, stooped, lifted it, and shook his head.

“You can’t manage one end o’ that, Master Tom,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“No, too weighty,” said his master; and without looking round he passed his keys. “Take out the drawers, they’re heavy, and carry them separately.”

This plan was followed out, each taking a drawer and carrying it out through the garden, and across the lane to the yard gate, which Tom unlocked after resting his drawer on the wall; leaving it there while he ran up and unlocked the tower door, then going back for the load he had left.

These two drawers were carried into the stone-floored workshop, where the bench under the window was covered with an old blanket, another doing duty as cover for the glass tool which had been replaced on the head of the cask.

“My word! what a differ there is here,” said David, as he glanced round with the drawer in his hands. “What yer put to bed under they blankets, sir?”

“Specula, David.”

“Speckle-hay? What, are you forcing on ’em?”

“Forcing?” said Tom, laughing.

“Yes; are they coming up?”

“Nonsense! Here are those two great pieces of glass uncle brought down. We’ve been polishing one.”

“Oh! them,” cried David. “My word! Wonder what old miller would ha’ said to see his place ramfoozled about like this?”

“Come along,” cried Tom; and the drawers were carried up, each being crammed full of papers and books, and laid on the floor close to the old mill-post.

“Worser and worser,” said David, looking round. “Dear, dear! the times I’ve been up here when the sacks was standing all about, some flour and some wheat, and the stones spinning round, the hopper going tippenny tap – tippenny tap, and the meal-dust so thick you could hardly breathe. I ’member coming out one night, and going home, and my missus says to me, ‘Why, Davy, old man, what yer been a-doing on? Yer head’s all powdered up like Squire Winkum’s footman.’ It was only meal, yer know.”

“And now you can come and go without getting white, David,” said Tom, moving a stool from under the newly put up shelves. “This is where the bureau is to go.”

“Is it now?” said David, scratching his head. “Why that’s where the old bin used to be. Ay, I’ve set on that bin many’s the time on a windy night, when miller wanted to get a lot o’ grist done.”

“Back again,” said Tom; and two more drawers were carried over. Then the framework and desk were fetched, with Mrs Fidler standing ready, dustpan and brush in hand, to remove any dirt and fluff that might be underneath.

“Tidy heavy now, Master Tom,” said David, as they bore the old walnut-wood piece of furniture across the garden and up to the mill, only setting it down once just inside the yard by way of a rest, and to close the gate.

Then the piece of furniture was carried in, and after some little scheming, hoisted up the steep ladder flight of steps, David getting under it and forcing it up with his head.

“Wonderful heavy bit o’ wood, Master Tom,” said the gardener.

“It’s an awkward place to get it up, David,” replied the boy. “Now then, just under those shelves. It will stand capitally there, and get plenty of light for writing.”

But the bureau did not stand capitally there, for the back feet were higher than the front, consequent upon the floor having sunk from the weight of millstones in the middle.

“She’ll want a couple o’ wedges under her, Master Tom,” said David.

“Yes. I’ve got a couple of pieces that will just do – part of a little box,” cried Tom. “I’ll fetch them, and the saw to cut the exact size. You wait here.”

“And put the drawers in, sir?”

“Not till we’ve got this right,” replied Tom, who was already at the head of the steps; and he ran down and across to the house, obtained the saw from the tool-chest, and hurried back to the mill, where he found David down in the workshop, waiting for him with his hands in his pockets.

“Didn’t yer uncle ought to leave his tool-chest over here, sir?” said the gardener.

“Oh yes, I suppose he will,” said Tom. “It would be handier. Halloo, did you open that window?”

“No, sir. I see it ajar like when we first came, and it just blowed open like when the door was swung back.”

Tom said no more, but led the way up-stairs, where the pieces of wood were wedged in under the front legs, sawn off square, and the drawers were replaced.

“Capital, Master Tom,” cried the gardener. “You’d make quite a carpenter. I say, what’s it like up-stairs?”

“Come and see,” said Tom, ready to idle a little now the work was done, and very proud of the place he had helped to contrive.

David tightened his blue serge apron roll about his waist, and followed up into the observatory, smiling, but ready to depreciate everything.

“Ay, but it’s a big change,” he said; “no sacks o’ wheat, no reg’lar machinery. There’s the master’s tallow scoop; he give me a look through it once, and there was the moon all covered with spots o’ grease like you see on soup sometimes. Well, it’s his’n, and he’s a right to do what he likes with the place. Ah, many’s the time I’ve been up here too. Why, Jose the carpenter chap’s cut away the top of the post here. You used to be able to move a bit of an iron contrapshum, and that would send the fan spinning, and the whole top would work round till the sails faced the wind.”

“Well, the whole top will work round now, David.”

“Not it, sir, without the sails.”

“But I tell you it will,” said Tom, moving a bar, and throwing open the long shutter, which fell back easily, letting in a long strip of sunshine, and giving a view of the blue sky from low-down toward the horizon to the zenith.

“Well, you do get plenty of ventilation,” said David oracularly. “Nothing like plenty of air for plants, and it’s good for humans too. Make you grow strong and stocky, Master Tom. But the top used to turn all round in the old days.”

“So it does now, so that uncle can direct his telescope any way. Look here!”

The boy moved to the side, and took hold of an endless rope, run round a wheel fixed to the side, pulled at the rope, and the wheel began to revolve, turning with it a small cogged barrel, which acted in turn upon the row of cogs belonging to the bottom of the woodwork dome, which began to move steadily round.

“Well, that caps me,” said David. “I thought it was a fixter now.”

“And you thought wrong, Davy,” said Tom, going up two or three steps, and passing out through the open shutter, and lowering himself into the little gallery that had once communicated with the fan, and here he stood looking out.

“All right there, Master Tom?”

“Yes.”

“May I move the thing?”

“If you like.”

David, as eagerly as a child with a new toy, began to pull at the rope, when the top began to revolve, taking the little gallery with it, and giving Tom a ride pretty well round the place before the gardener stopped, and turned his face through the opening left by the shutter.

“Goes splendid!” he said, as Tom came in and closed the shutter. “I wouldn’t ha’ believed it. And so the master’s going to build a big tallow scoop up there, is he?”

“Yes; and we’ve got a good deal of it done. There, let’s get down. Uncle may want me.”

“Ay, and I must get back to my garden, sir. There’s a deal to do there, and I could manage with a lot of help.”

“Uncle was talking of making this place quite a study, and putting a lot of books here, the other day,” said Tom, as they descended to the laboratory.

“Was he now? Rare windy place, though, sir, isn’t it? Windy milly place, eh?”

“Well, you said air was good,” said Tom, laughing; and they went down into the workshop. “Mustn’t have that window left open though,” said Tom; and, going to the side, he reached over the bench with the blanket spread over it, drew in the iron-framed lattice window, and fastened it, and was drawing back, when the blanket, which had been hanging draped over a good deal at one end, yielded to that end’s weight, and glided off, to fall in a heap upon the stones.

Tom stooped quickly to pick it up, but as his head was descending below the level of the great bench-table, he stopped short, staring at its bare level surface, rose up, turned, and looked sharply at the gardener, and then in quite an excited way stepped to where the upturned cask stood covered with its blanket, and raised it as if expecting to find something there.

But the glass disc his uncle spoke of as a tool lay there only; and with a horrible feeling of dread beginning to oppress him, Tom turned back to the heap of blanket lying upon the floor, stooped over it, but feared to remove it – to lift it up from the worn flagstones.

“Anything the matter, sir?” said David, looking at him curiously from the door.

“Matter? Yes!” cried Tom, who was beginning to feel a peculiar tremor. “David, you – you opened that window.”

“Nay, sir, I never touched it,” said the gardener stoutly.

“Yes; while I was gone for the saw and wedges.”

“Nay, sir, I come down and just looked about, that’s all; I never touched the window.”

“But – but there was the beautiful, carefully-ground speculum there on that bench, just as uncle and I had finished it. We left it covered over last night – with the blanket – and – and – ” he added in a tone of despair, “it isn’t there now.”

“Well, I never touched it, sir,” said the gardener; “you may search my pockets if you like.”

Tom could not see the absurdity of the man’s suggestion, and in his agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not daring to touch it.

“It’s broken,” he moaned to himself; “I know it is!” and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead.

“I shouldn’t ha’ persoomed to touch none o’ master’s contrapshums, sir,” broke in the gardener, rather sharply, “so don’t you go and tell him as I did. I know how partickler he always is.”

“Broken – broken!” murmured Tom. “The poor speculum – and after all that work.”

Then slowly taking the fold of the blanket in his hand he raised it up, and drew it on one side, faintly hoping that he might be wrong, but hoping against hope, for the next moment he had unveiled it where it lay, to see his worst fears confirmed – the beautiful limpid-looking object lay upon the flag at the end, broken in three pieces, one of which reflected the boy’s agitated face.

Chapter Seventeen

“Oh, David!” cried Tom at last, “how could you touch?”

There was so much agony of spirit in the boy’s tones that the gardener felt moved, and remained for a few moments silent. Then rousing himself —

“I didn’t, Master Tom; I never touched it. Go and swear I didn’t ’fore all the judges in the land.”

“Don’t tell a lie to hide it,” said Tom bitterly.

“Lie! me tell a lie! S’elp me, Master Tom, it’s as true as true.”

“But you reached over to open the window, and knocked it off, David.”

“Swear as I never went a-nigh the window, sir. Don’t you go and say it was me when it was you.”

“I?” cried Tom, flushing.

“Well, sir, you say it was me, and I see you reach out, and the blanket all falled down – now didn’t I, sir?”

“Yes; the blanket went down, but the speculum was not in it, or we should have heard it fall.”

“Not if it was all wrapped up in that there blanket, sir.”

“I tell you we should,” cried Tom, in his angry despair. “You don’t know how heavy it was. What shall I do? What will uncle say?”

“Well, sir, if you put it like that, and own to it fair, I should say as he’ll kick up the jolliest row he ever made since I broke the whole of the greenhouse light by making it slip right off, and letting it go smash. And then I’d gone straight to him and told him, as I should advise you to do, sir, at once. Master don’t like to find things out.”

“But I did not break it,” cried Tom.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir. It was an accident, of course; but I’d go straight to him and tell him.”

“David!” cried Tom fiercely, “you’re a miserable, cowardly wretch! I did not break it, and you know it. How can I go and take all the blame?”

“Well, sir, how can I, as am as innocent as one o’ my best blooms?” cried David. “Well, in all my born days, I never did.”

“Why don’t you speak out and own to it, sir?” said Tom indignantly. “It’s horrible enough after the way we’ve worked at that speculum to have it broken; but you make it ten times worse by denying it.”

“I’d say I did it, sir, in a minute,” replied David indignantly; “but it goes hard to see a young gent like you, master’s own nevvy, ready to try and bring the whole business down on a poor working-man’s head, and so I tell you to your face. If any one’s cowardly, it arn’t me, and I’m ready to come across to master and tell him so. I’m ashamed of you, sir, that I am. I thought you was a real gentleman, and was beginning to like you; but it’s all over between us, sir, for you arn’t the sort of lad I thought you. Me break it? You know I never did. Why, I’ve never been in the place since you and master have been in here busy. Shame on you, Master Tom! Go and tell your uncle, like you ought. It’s an accident; but don’t you go and make it worse,” and with these words David stumped out of the lower part of the old mill, and made his way back to his garden, leaving Tom hot with indignation against him, and half choking with a feeling of misery.

“And uncle has got to know,” he said half aloud; “uncle has got to know.”

Chapter Eighteen

The speculum that was never to reflect the bright face of the moon was easily moved now, and Tom stooped down and picked up one by one the three triangular pieces, and laid them upon the bench, to find then that a good-sized elliptical piece, something in shape like a fresh-water mussel-shell, yet remained upon the stones. This he raised, and found that it fitted in at the edge beneath.

There was nothing to be gained in what he did, but Tom stood there carefully fitting the fractures together, and spending a great deal of time over the task, while the mirror reflected his sorrowful face as he bent over it. And as he ran his fingers along the three lines of union, the boy’s thoughts went back to the scene that evening at Mornington Crescent, when the big china vase was dragged down, to break to shivers in the hall.

“And Sam said I broke that, just as David says I broke this, and all to escape blame. I don’t want to tell uncle that David broke it, but I must; I’m not going to take the blame myself, for it would be cowardly as well as lying. But it is so hard. He will be so angry.”

So Tom communed as he pieced the fragments of the mirror together, ending by getting the sponge, rinsing it well, and carefully removing a few smears and finger-marks, before taking a clean cloth and wiping it quite dry.

“That’s no good,” he said bitterly. “I’m only doing it so as to keep from going and telling uncle, and I must tell him – I must tell him, and the sooner the better.”

But still he did not stir. He picked up the blanket, and folded that up neatly, to lay it beside the speculum, and then looked round for something else to do.

This he found in the window, which he opened and shut two or three times over, before drawing away from it, with a sigh, and going to the door to look across at the house, where his uncle would be writing.

“I ought to go and tell him, but it is so hard to do. Suppose he thinks it is my work – suppose David goes and accuses me of having broken it to escape himself.”

Tom stood aghast at the idea, and was for rushing across at once, but something seemed to hold him back, and a good half-hour passed before he fully strung himself up to go.

Then, closing and locking the door, he did the same by the gate; and now, pale and firm enough, he hung up the keys, and then went straight to the study door, paused for a few moments to think what to say first, and then walked straight in.

“Uncle, I’ve come to give you very bad news,” he said in a husky voice, and then he stopped short.

There was no one in the room, and on going out into the hall, he found that his uncle’s hat and stick were missing, and consequently he must have gone down the village to post his letters, and perhaps drop in at the Vicarage on his return.

“Oh, how tiresome!” thought Tom; “just too when I felt I could tell him. Now I must begin all over again.”

It was not until nearly two o’clock that Uncle Richard returned, looking very serious; and as they went into the little dining-room alone, Mrs Fidler having stopped back to give some orders respecting the dinner, Tom screwed himself up to make the announcement, which would have come easily enough if it had not been for David’s charge, and a shrinking feeling which it had engendered, that Uncle Richard might fancy the same thing. But at last the boy, in his consciousness of innocence, was ready to speak, and turned to him.

“Uncle,” he said quickly, “I want to say something to you about the speculum.”

“Not now, my boy; I have something else to think about. Let that rest.”

Tom’s lips parted, and he drew a deep breath of relief at what seemed to him to be a reprieve. Then Mrs Fidler entered the room, and dinner commenced, with Uncle Richard looking very thoughtful.

It was impossible to say anything before Mrs Fidler, Tom thought, for if he was to be in any way blamed, he determined that it should be when alone. In addition, he felt that he should not like to speak of David’s delinquency before the housekeeper.

It was a delicious dinner, but poor Mrs Fidler soon began to look troubled, for her master got on very badly; and Tom, who had felt as if his plate had been filled with bitter sand, so hard was the task of eating, refused a second help!

This was too much for Mrs Fidler, who looked piteously from one to the other, and exclaimed —

“Is there anything the matter with the veal pie, sir?”

“Eh? Matter, Mrs Fidler?” said Uncle Richard. “I hope not. I really don’t know. Oh, I see. I have hardly tasted it. The fact is, Mrs Fidler, I am in trouble.”

Tom jumped in his chair.

“David has told him,” he said to himself, and he felt hot and cold.

“I have heard something this morning which has disturbed me a good deal.”

Uncle Richard turned his eyes upon his nephew, who tried to speak, but no words would come.

“Dear, dear me, sir,” said the housekeeper. “I am so sorry.”

“I know you are,” said Uncle Richard. “The fact is, my brother met with an accident some little time ago, and it was thought to be of no consequence, but it seems that it is, and the doctors have ordered that he should at once have change of air. He has written to me this morning to that effect.”

“Then he don’t know anything about it,” said Tom, with a sigh of relief, which gave place to a feeling of annoyance, for he wished now that his uncle did know.

“He asks me to have him here for a few days or weeks, and of course I have written to beg that he will come. I hope our air will set him right again, and that it is not so serious as he thinks.”

“Then you’d like me to get a room ready for him at once, sir?” said Mrs Fidler, with alacrity.

“If you please, Mrs F.”

“It shall be done, sir. I am so glad – I mean so sorry. I was afraid something was wrong here.”

“No, Mrs Fidler, there is nothing wrong here; but I’m afraid, Tom, that the visitor will put a stop to our telescopic work.”

Tom seized his opportunity, and blurted out —

“It is stopped, uncle: the speculum is broken in three pieces.”

“What!” cried Uncle Richard, turning pale.

“Completely spoiled, uncle.”

“How, in the name of all that’s unfortunate, did you do that, sir?”

It was Tom’s turn to start now, for his uncle had immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was his doing, and his words in answer sounded lame and inconclusive.

“I didn’t break it, uncle; I found it on the floor.”

“Found it on the floor!” cried Uncle Richard, sarcastically. “It was the cat, I suppose. Was the window left open?”

“I found – ”

“There, hold your tongue now,” said Uncle Richard. “I have something else to think about. You will have everything ready, Mrs Fidler. I have been so separated from my brother nearly all my life, that I feel I owe him every attention.”

“I will attend to it all most carefully.”

“He may come down to-morrow, for I have written saying he is most welcome.”

“Make yourself quite easy, sir. His room shall be ready. I beg pardon, sir; is his good lady coming with him?”

“No, he is coming down alone. I have told him to telegraph by what train, so that I may go and meet him.”

The miserable dinner soon came to an end, and Uncle Richard, instead of chatting pleasantly, never so much as looked at his nephew. But Mrs Fidler did, with her head on one side; and every time Tom caught her eye, which seemed to be nearly every minute, she shook her head at him gently, and gave him such appealing looks, that he felt exasperated at last, and as if he would like to throw something at her.

“She thinks I did it now,” he said to himself; and when his uncle left the table and went into his study he had full proof, for Mrs Fidler seized the opportunity, and shaking her head at him again, said in a whisper —

“Oh, Master Tom, my dear, the truth may be blamed, but can never be shamed.”

“Well, I know that,” cried the boy angrily.

“Hush, my dear! I know it’s very hard, but do – do go and tell your uncle the truth, and he’ll forgive you.”

“I have told him the truth,” cried Tom hotly.

“Oh, my dear, my dear, I’m afraid not, or else your face wouldn’t be so dreadfully red and guilty-like, and I’m sure as your uncle thinks you broke it.”

“Yes,” cried Tom; “everybody seems to think so.”

“Then pray, pray, my dear, be open.”

“Don’t, Mrs Fidler, don’t,” cried Tom pettishly. “I feel as if I can’t bear it.”

“Now, sir, I’m waiting,” said Uncle Richard, suddenly appearing at the open window. “Come over to the observatory at once.”

“Yes, uncle; coming,” cried Tom.

“And do, pray, pray tell him all the truth, my dear,” whispered Mrs Fidler.

“Ugh! you stupid old woman,” exclaimed Tom to himself, as he ran out into the hall, got his cap, and followed his uncle, who was walking sharply on toward the mill-yard, with the keys hanging from his hand.

“And he’s thinking all the time that I did it,” muttered Tom. “He might have waited.”

“Pst! pst!” came from among the bushes, and the boy turned sharply, to see David working his arms about like an old-fashioned telegraph.

“Can’t stop. What is it?” said Tom roughly.

“I ain’t going to stop you, Master Tom; but you go and tell the truth.”

“Bah!” cried Tom.

“The truth may be shamed, sir, but can never be blamed,” said the gardener oracularly.

“Get out, you topsy-turvy old humbug,” cried Tom wrathfully. “Think I don’t know you?” and he ran on, and caught up to his uncle as he was passing through the yard gate.

He did not speak, but went on toward the observatory door.

“Shall I open it, uncle?” said Tom eagerly.

“No,” was the abrupt reply; and Tom shrank within himself like a snail touched with the end of a walking-stick on a damp night. Then the key was rattled into the lock, the door was thrown open, and Uncle Richard, looking very grave and stern, stalked into the workshop straight to the table, glanced at the speculum, and pushed the pieces apart, frowning angrily.

“I’d sooner have given a hundred pounds than that should have happened,” he said.

“Yes, uncle; it’s horrid,” said Tom.

“How did you do it?” said Uncle Richard, turning sharply, and fixing him with his keen eyes, as he had often fixed some deceitful, shivering coolie, who had looked up to him in the past as master and judge in one.

“I didn’t do it,” cried Tom passionately. “Everybody misjudges me, and thinks it was I.”

“Then how did it happen?”

Tom told him briefly.

“Was that window left open last night?”

“I don’t think so, uncle; I’m almost sure I fastened it.”

“Almost!” said Uncle Richard, in the same cold, hard way in which he had spoken before. “Then, sir, you accuse David of having meddled and broken it?”

“No, I don’t, uncle,” said Tom, speaking quite firmly now. “I told you everything.”

“Fetch David.”

Tom hurried out, and had no difficulty in finding the gardener, who had hardly stirred from where he had left him.

“I knowed the master’d want me. Did you own up, sir, like a man?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Tom angrily. “Come to uncle directly.”

“Then – ”

David said no more, but gave his old straw hat a smart rap on the crown, and walked sharply on before Tom, unrolling and shaking out his blue apron, prior to rolling it up again very tightly about his waist. He strode along so rapidly that Tom had hard work to keep up with him; and in spite of his efforts, David strode into the workshop first, pulled off his hat, dashed it down on the floor, and struck one hand loudly with his fist.

“What I say is this here, sir. I’ve sarved you faithful ever since you come back from the burning Ingies – ”

“Silence!”

“And made the garden what it is – ”

“Silence!” said Uncle Richard, more sternly.

“And if Master Tom’s been telling you a pack o’ lies about me – ”

“Silence, man!” cried Uncle Richard angrily.

“Why, all I’ve got to say is – ”

“Will you hold your tongue, sir? My nephew has not even accused you. He has merely told me his own version of the accident.”

“Oh!” said David, looking from one to the other, thoroughly taken aback.

“Now give me your account, sir,” continued Uncle Richard.

David threw in a few pieces of ornamentation about his narrative, but its essence was precisely the same as Tom’s.

“Humph!” said Uncle Richard. “It looks as of one of you must be in fault.”

“I take my solemn – ”

“Silence, sir! you have spoken enough. Tell me this, as the man I have always been a good master to, and have always trusted. I know it is a serious thing, but I want the simple truth. Did you have an accident, and break that glass?”

“I wish I may die this minute if I did, sir,” cried David; “and that’s an awful thing to say.”

“Thank you, David; I believe you,” said Uncle Richard quietly, and the gardener’s face glowed as he turned his eyes on Tom, and then frowned, and jerked his head, and seemed to say —

“Now out with the truth, my lad, like a man.”

Tom was darting back an angry look, when his uncle turned to him, with eyes that seemed to read him through and through.

“I thought it was your doing at first, Tom, in my vexation,” he said. “Then I suspected poor David here, very unwillingly. But you see we are at fault.”

“Yes, uncle,” cried Tom eagerly, for there was something in his uncle’s tone, stern as it sounded, that was like a friendly grasp of the hand, and turning towards him, in quite an excited burst, he cried, “Then you don’t think I did it?”

“Of course not, my boy. What have you ever done that I should doubt your word?”

Tom could not speak, but he made a snatch at his uncle’s hand, to feel it close warmly upon his own.

David looked from one to the other, and then stooped and picked up his hat, put it on, recollected himself, and snatched it off again.

“Well,” he said softly, “it’s a rum ’un. If I didn’t feel quite cock-sure as it was you, Master Tom, that I did. Then it warn’t you, arter all! Then who was it? that’s what I want to know.”

“That’s what we all want to know, David,” said Uncle Richard, as he laid his hand now upon his nephew’s shoulder, the firm pressure seeming to send a thrill of strength and determination through the boy’s heart. “One thing is very plain – it could not have broken itself.”