"This tells me," said he, holding the letter from him, "that I am to take this little fellow-what's his name? Richard Freeman, under my care-under my tuition."

"Yes, sir," said Ludlow.

"And that he is to remain with me during the holydays?" Ludlow bowed.

"That implies that the lad's parents are dead; is it so ?" "I believe they are," replied Ludlow, hesitating.

"Ah! not certain?" said Burridge; "perhaps there's more life than death in the matter, eh ?"

"I really do not know," replied Ludlow, disconcerted. "Ah! well!" returned Burridge "who is Henrietta Mason ?"

"My lady," replied Ludlow, "the Lady Mason."

"The Lady Mason!-oh! I beg her pardon," cried Burridge with a low bow, "that's it; I always bow to a title." He rang the bell. "Bring some wine," as the servant entered. Ludlow began to plead headache, but was stopped by the familiar hand of Burridge upon his mouth.

"Now, sir," said he, when the wine was put on the table, "I crave pardon—your name?”

"Ludlow, sir."

"Well, Mr. Ludlow," and he slapped his brawny leg, "let us drink to the speedy progress of our young student; and we'll give him a glass too, to damp him down, as printers do their paper, before he goes into the press. Let us hope he'll contain something good when he comes out of it."

"I hope so, indeed," said Ludlow, earnestly, setting down his glass. "Will you forgive me?" he resumed after a pause; "but I trust-I feel no doubt-indeed, I know that he will be treated kindly. I am, sir," and poor Ludlow smiled with a kind of mournful humility, "I am greatly attached to him."

Mr. Burridge raised his black brows, and gazed into the meek countenance of the other. "Ah! well-you like him," he remarked, at length. "Why, yes, we shall treat him kindly enough, I dare say. We keep a school, Ludlow, not a slaughter-house; we are not cannibals, but Christians;

men, not monsters. But, sir," and here he shook his finger in the air, "Mr. Shakspeare, an author strangely neglected in these our times, albeit the greatest genius that ever appeared in England, except Milton, and in all, save sublimity, he surpasses even that stupendous genius-Mr. Shakspeare has proposed this question-Treat a man according to his deserts, and who shall escape whipping?' Now, sir, if that be true, and I believe it is," winking his eye knowingly, and pointing with his thumb over to me, "d'ye think the boys ought to go scot free, eh ?"

"No, indeed," said Ludlow. "Do you hear what Mr. Burridge says, Richard? You must take care."

"So he will," cried Burridge, putting on his periwig. "The truth is, the temples of Greece and Rome are 'bosom'd high in tufted trees;'-birch trees, Mr. Ludlow; and I never knew a boy yet who could find his way to those temples without going through those trees. But come, Dick, take leave of your friend; he is anxious to go.'

So saying, Mr. Burridge hummed the end of an old song, which I afterwards discovered was the only one ever committed to memory by that gentleman, and taking a turn or two, left the room.

"Not anxious to go, dear Richard," said Ludlow, slipping half-a-guinea into my hand, and kissing my forehead; "but if I stayed longer, I should not reach London to-night. God bless you! Remember me kindly, will you? It shall not be long before I see you again."

My heart was heavy when my only friend left me; and when I heard the street door fairly close upon him, I began to weep. Burridge surprised me in this dismal plight.

"What! whimpering ?" said he. "Cease wailing and gnashing, my young Heraclitus; we shall soon be very good friends, I dare say. Here, take heart, and another glass of wine, and leave crying to girls who have knocked their dolls' heads off, and can't put them on again. There! a laugh becomes you much better. Now, what do you say, my man ?" and, my head between his hands, he lifted me on to a chair. "Who has been giving you the rudiments -where have you been to school ?"

"With Old Staines," said I.

"Old Staines! ah! well-let's see what hue your mind has acquired from Old Staines."

Here he put a variety of questions to me, touching my advancement in English grammar, my answers to which were clearly far from satisfactory; for he knitted his brows and shook his head in token of disapproval, and with a protruded lip stood for a while in meditation.

"Ah! well-well? No-ill," he said, at length, "very ill-very ill, indeed. What was the name?" he continued, suddenly turning to me, "of the Baotian, eh? the blundering bumpkin-the brute who taught you all he knew, and couldn't help it, eh ?"

"Old Staines," I repeated.

"Old Staines!" echoed Burridge, throwing up his arms. "Dicky Freeman, such old stains-old blots, rather-ought to be expunged from creation. But, come with me; we'll begin to-morrow to rub out those old stains."

So saying, he swung me with one arm from the chair in a volant circle, and taking my hand in his, led me into the school room.

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Metcalfe," said he, addressing a dingy old fellow, begrimed with snuff from nose to knees, who was seated at a desk mending pens. "Call the boys out of the playground. Bid them come hither-all of them-instantly."

Metcalfe passed his hands along his shiny galligaskins, and then flapped his paunch vigorously, causing a cloud of dust to fly out of his waistcoat, and rising with a grunt, made leisurely for a door at the other end of the room.

"Stand you here, Freeman," said Burridge, planting me at the foot of an elevated desk, which he ascended.

Presently, in straggled a number of boys of various sizes, ages, and appearance, who, catching the master's eye, as he stood towering before them, ranged themselves in something like order and awaited his speech, which, prefaced by a terrific monitory smiting on the desk with a large wooden ruler, ran in pretty nearly these words:

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Young gentlemen; ah! well! young gentlemen, for so you are, or rather, for so I mean to make you-behold

this young fellow-student whom I here present to you. He is strange, and shy, and, no doubt, not a little disconcerted at present; be it yours to console, to enliven, to encourage him. Cheer him, my brave fellows, cheer him, my good lads. Be at once the rule and the example of good manners. He's but a little lad, you see-make much of him. (Pshaw! little-make much-very poor that!) In short, since I constantly inculcate kindness, humanity and politeness, do show, though it be for the first time, that I have not laboured in vain."

This address being brought to a conclusion, Mr. Burridge descended from his desk. "Go amongst them, Dick," said he, with a singularly sweet and benevolent smile, patting me on the head,-"and make as many friends as you can. Metcalfe, I want you. Follow me to my study," and he stalked away; the dingy usher, having gone through the same manual operations as before, following at a humble distance.

Burridge's speech, delivered, as it had been, in the most persuasive manner a remarkably sonorous voice could adopt, encouraged me greatly. I advanced, therefore, into the middle of the room, and proceeded to scan the countenances of my school-fellows with a view of striking up a friendship with one or more of them. I had not stood long thus, however, when a pull of my hair, from behind, caused me to start round with indignant surprise. My eyes lighted upon a row of faces of singular gravity, with a hand over each mouth as of philosophical speculation. As I turned scowling from these grave Muftis, hopeless of detecting the delinquent, a second visitation of the same nature awakened my fury, and turning short upon my heel, with a rapid swing of my arm, I prostrated a small wretch, upon whose upturned visage still lingered a slight vestige of mischievous glee which was instantaneously succeeded by a look of woe. The lamentations of this victim opened the throats of the smaller fry. "He won't fight.""He_daren't fight.”— "What's his name ?" resounded on all sides.

"I say, you sir,” cried a boy older and taller than myself, strutting briskly up to me, "what's your name?"

"Go it, Sinclair-that's it, Sinclair," shouted the ingenuous youths.

(Boys are the generous, noble, high-minded beings their grandmothers inspire philosophers to call them.)

"What's your name, I tell you?" repeated Sinclair. "Richard Freeman," said I, sturdily.

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Well, have you a mind to fight ?”

"Any one of my own size," I answered; "and I should like to catch the coward that pulled my hair just now."

Although I said this readily and resolutely enough, a sense of my unfriended condition lay heavy at my heart, and mingled grief and rage arose into my throat. I would have averted my head to conceal the tears that sprang to my eyes; but at this moment a tap on the shoulder engaged my attention. I looked up, and saw a boy about Sinclair's age. He kindly took me by the hand.

"I'm Gregory-Tom Gregory," said he; "never mind them-I'll stand by you!"

In the meanwhile, Sinclair had been taking counsel with his companions.

"I'll see what he's made of," he observed as he broke from them, sagaciously nodding his head. Thereupon the young gentleman, in a kind of dance, receded a few paces, and, with his tongue between his teeth, and one eye cocked as though to enable him to take a surer aim, he advanced towards me in the same lively manner, and struck me across the face with his open hand."

Two boys, with very good intentions, instantly seized me by the arms.

"You are no match for him ;-don't fight him," said they. But, had he been the devil's own imp, I had flown upon him for that. Bursting from their hold, I rushed headlong upon my assailant, and dealt him such a blow upon the under jaw as, had he not withdrawn his insolent tongue, might, perhaps, have abridged it. As it was, he recoiled, with an expression of face almost pitiable.

Enough," said Tom Gregory, interposing; "well done, Freeman. Sinclair, you are a coward to strike a boy younger than yourself."