CHAPTER IV.

GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY.

BY some means or other the children knew before breakfast next morning that Dora would be their teacher as soon as the holidays were over.

But the news did not give the satisfaction she expected.

Olive openly grumbled. "They learnt well enough from mother, why couldn't they go on in the old way?" she was heard to ask.

And Lottie, for no other reason than because she thought it a clever thing to echo Olive's words, chimed in with, "Yes, it would be ever so much nicer to go on doing lessons as they did before."

Dora, though she wisely kept the opinion to herself, thought them both ungrateful little creatures. But the momentary feeling of annoyance over, she resolved with characteristic good temper that they should have as little cause as possible to regret the change, and she drew comfort from the fact that Giles, whom she half feared would protest against having her as his governess, made no remark whatever.

It was well for her peace of mind that she did not hear a conversation which took place between him and his eldest brother as soon as they had left the table.

In order to be in good time at the warehouse, Edgar often got up from breakfast before the younger children had finished, and during the holidays he had frequently been accompanied to the railway station by either Robert or Giles. This morning the latter asked permission to go with his brother, and his mother having willingly granted his request, he followed Edgar out of the room and into the hall.

There Giles burst forth with—

"I want to know if I can't go to school. I am sick of doing lessons at home like a girl."

The last three words were brought out with great contempt.

"I am afraid you must put up with it for a while longer," said Edgar, quietly. "After another year we shan't have to be so particular about spending a little money, and then I daresay you'll go with Robert again."

"It isn't as if it were a dear school. It wouldn't cost much to send me," went on Giles. "I remember hearing somebody say once it was one of the few things that were both cheap and good."

"The terms aren't high, because it's purposely for people in our class of life," rejoined Edgar. "But for all that I know mother can't afford to let you go back yet."

"Then," said Giles, passionately, "I've a great mind to say I won't learn of Dora. Why! She's only five years and two months older than I."

"That's a good deal now we're all young," said Edgar, putting on the coat and hat he had been brushing, "Though I don't suppose we shall find it much when we grow up. Now come along, if you are going to the station; I don't want to miss my usual train."

Then as they walked along, he tried to change the conversation to a more cheerful subject. But Giles was feeling very sore this morning, and he would not be taken from his grievance.

"All I can say," he continued, ignoring his brother's kind efforts, "is that I shan't try to do my lessons for Dora. When I'm sent to school again I'll work as well as anybody."

Edgar had not before realised that any additional responsibility would fall on him in consequence of his father's absence. Now he saw it was his duty to take his father's place to the utmost of his power, and talk to Giles as he would have talked had he been there. A new light was suddenly thrown on the words that had been said to him, as to the eldest son, on their father's last evening at home.

"That spirit will never do, Giles," he remarked.

"I don't care," grumbled Giles. "I'm over ten, and I think it's a great shame to be treated like a baby."

"I don't know about being treated like a baby. I know you are behaving like one."

Edgar spoke very gently. There was no contempt in his voice, and no anger; only a kind and fond interest was expressed. Perhaps for this reason Giles blushed and looked ashamed. Nevertheless, he put on an air of indifference.

"I don't see how that can be," he said. "Any boy of spirit would object to being taught with two sisters younger than himself, and by a sister," Giles laid great stress on the by,—"a very little older."

Edgar could have laughed outright, but he restrained himself.

"I don't know your idea of a boy of spirit, but I know what your Sunday-school teacher and mother would think the best kind of spirit to have," he said.

"What?" asked Giles.

For a moment Edgar hesitated. He was naturally reserved and it was not easy for him to speak openly of sacred subjects at any time. To do so now was still harder. Giles might think he was preaching, and that was what he abhorred.

"The spirit of Christ," he replied, and though he spoke with much difficulty the words were uttered slowly and reverently. "That is the best and most truly manly spirit we can any of us have. You know what it would have you do?"

Giles shook his head. But the answer that his heart made was: "Learn of Dora and try to make good progress."

"The spirit of Christ," said Edgar in the same low voice, "would have you willing to learn of your sister, and anxious to do her credit as her pupil. He did not seek to please Himself, you know, and neither must we. Then by putting aside your own wishes and saying nothing about them, you will be fulfilling your part of the trust father left us."

"I don't see how," said Giles briefly, but without any sullenness or complaint in his voice.

"I don't think there's any need for me to tell you mother is not at all strong, and attending to the house and teaching so much as she did all last year has tried her greatly. Now Dora is not only willing, but very eager to take the work from her. But if you grumble and make a fuss and give Dora trouble, then mother will feel obliged to teach you again herself, and besides that, she will be so grieved that she cannot send you to school. It bothers her now. She was talking about it only last night. 'If I could anyhow spare another sovereign, he should go,' she said, and there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Giles, old fellow, you won't add to her troubles, will you?"

Giles' face was turned away, and his brother had to wait for an answer. When it did come, the "No" was spoken in so choked a voice that Edgar only just caught the sound.

"I knew you wouldn't," he said, as he put his hand on Giles' shoulder. "I knew you'd take your share in bearing the family burden like a brave, manly boy. It's not an easy burden. At times I feel as if I couldn't bear my part of it."

As Giles looked up wonderingly and with misty eyes, some inexplicable and most unusual impulse prompted Edgar to speak still more freely of himself.

"My part has been to give up my desire of becoming a doctor," he said.

"I didn't know you ever wanted to be one," exclaimed Giles in astonishment.

"Only mother and father know. You are in the secret now, but you'll keep it to yourself, won't you?"

A thrill of pride, not unmixed with gratitude to Edgar for having confided in him, shot through Giles' heart. Yes; he would be as true as steel to his brother.

"I won't tell. You may depend upon that," he said.

"Well, I've had to give up my idea of being a doctor, and go to the warehouse instead."

"And you don't like it?"

"No. I hate it."

Giles was silent. He felt very sorry for his brother, and ashamed too of his complaints of a little while ago. He felt, more than he understood, that his trouble was small in comparison with that of which he had just heard.

"I am so sorry," he said, and he slipped his hand into Edgar's. "Isn't there any hope that you may be a doctor yet?"

"I don't think so. In the present day, one can't be a doctor without having had a good education and passed lots of exams., and I had to leave school before I was fifteen. Even if we should be better off in a year or two, there will certainly be no money to spare."

"Perhaps something will turn up," said Giles, hardly knowing what he meant by the frequently-heard expression, but hoping the words would show his sympathy and give comfort.

"You're a downright good fellow to talk to," said Edgar, greatly touched by the manner in which Giles had received his confidence, and accompanying the words with an affectionate squeeze of the little hand that was clasped in his own. "But," he continued, "I'm afraid there isn't a shadow of hope for me. I shouldn't have said, though, that I hated my work at the warehouse. I do try to like it, and perhaps, after a while, I may find pleasure in it. Of course, I am very glad to be able to do something towards adding to the general fund. I wouldn't be a clog on mother and father for ever so. I'd a thousand times rather have it as it is."

At this the conversation abruptly ended, for at that moment they entered the booking-office, and the puffing and noise of a train drawing up in the station below warned Edgar that if he would catch it, he had not a moment to lose. He had only time for a look and a hurried good-bye, as he rushed down the long flight of steps, leaving Giles to go home alone.

But it was a very different Giles from the one who had left the breakfast-table. For the first time he began to see some of the true meaning of life. Christ had not pleased Himself, neither must he; and it made him glad to know that he, child as he was, could take his part in bearing the family trouble. The thought caused him to be very strong, and brave, and manly.

"No, I won't grumble," he said to himself. "I'll just try to do my best for Dora, and mother shan't ever know how much I hate doing lessons at home, and how badly I want to go to school. And what's more," and Giles drew himself up with conscious dignity, "I won't got cross and angry when I meet Tom Rilston and some of the other boys who used to be in my form, and they ask me how I like being taught at home by my 'mammy.'"

He began to put his good resolutions into practice at once. On reaching home he went straight to the sitting room where Dora was reading with Phil upon her knee. She and the baby were alone, and going up to her, Giles said simply,—

"I'm glad you arn't going to let mother teach us any longer. I'll do my best to get on nicely, and perhaps I can help a bit with Lottie's lessons. Mother often used to ask me to set her some sums to work."

Dora was feeling both disappointed and downhearted that Olive and Lottie should have expressed so much dissatisfaction with the new arrangement, and these unexpected words greatly comforted her.

"Thank you, Giles," she said, and, in spite of her endeavours to force them back, the tears would come into her eyes. "I hope to make your lessons easy and interesting to you. I shall try to do so at any rate, and we must be patient with each other, mustn't we?"

This was not quite what Giles had looked for. Dora seemed almost to be pleading for his obedience and attention. He was very sorry he had had hard thoughts of her that morning, and perhaps he would have told her of them, and of the better spirit that now influenced him had not Robert at that moment entered the room.

"It's thawing fast, isn't it, Giles?" he asked.

"Yes, I heard one man say to another that he shouldn't be surprised if we had rain before night. I suppose there won't be much skating after all."

"No," said Robert, and a certain troubled look that his face had worn lately rolled away like a cloud before sunshine. Then almost immediately he asked, "Will you help me find my school books, Giles? I haven't begun my holiday task yet, and it's time I set about it."

Giles would rather have done anything than this, for while searching for the books—Robert never knew where to find his possessions—he should be thinking of the school he had liked so much, and from which he had been so unexpectedly removed. Without a word, however, he began to hunt for the missing volumes, and in a little while Robert, with pencil and paper in hand, was hard at work upon a simple equation in algebra.

As Giles glanced up from his story-book, and saw his brother at the table, an idea, "just a lovely one," as Dora frequently said of her own thoughts, came into his mind.

Why should he not do at home what he would have been doing had he been at school? He had just begun Latin when he had been taken away; he had, in fact, mastered the first three declensions. Now, with a feeling of shame, Giles found himself unable to decline the singular of "Mensa." Well, he would begin again. Edgar would help him, he knew, and he would work hard at all his studies, so that when he went to school again, he might be placed in a higher form than that in which he had been when he left. Yes, that was what he would do, and perhaps Robert would teach him algebra. He would puzzle it out as much as possible for himself, so that it would only be a little help he should need. And here Giles, practical little Giles, did an unheard-of thing. He dreamed a day-dream, which for brilliancy of colouring and impossibility of attainment rivalled those of Dora herself.

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