"WELL, boys; work nearly finished?" questioned Dr. Dennis, the evening subsequent to Mr. and Mrs. Collins' arrival at B—, as he entered the schoolroom where his sons and his nephew were poring over their lesson-books. "Not quite, eh? Well, you'll find me in the surgery when you're ready to hear what I've to tell."
"Oh, if it's about your old overcoat, please tell us now, father!" Claude cried impetuously. "Have you seen the Lamberts?"
"I have had an interview with the father of the family, and a decent, respectable man he appears to be."
"A young man?" asked Claude; "is he clean-shaven, and slight, and dark?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh, then he is the one I saw wearing your coat that day outside the police court! What did he say when you asked him how he got it, father?"
"He told me he had purchased it for a few shillings from a second-hand clothes shop in East Street. I went there and saw the proprietor of the shop, who informed me that he bought the coat last October from a stranger—a tall old man, evidently on tramp, who had declared he had had it given to him. I asked the wardrobe dealer if there had been anything in a pocket of the coat, but he said 'No,' that doubtless if there had been the old man had discovered it before he had offered the coat for sale. I think so too."
"Then there is not the remotest chance of your getting your pocket-book again, father," Edwin said, glancing sympathetically at his cousin, whose eyes were downcast and cheeks aflame with a burning, painful blush.
"None whatever. Freddy's protégé must have been a regular professional beggar. I only wish those two five-pound notes had fallen into worthier hands."
"I am glad you are satisfied that the Lamberts are honest people," Claude said, "for I was beginning to be afraid of what we might find out about them, although they seemed perfectly straight. You won't mind our going to see Bobby again now, will you, father?"
"Not in the least. Don't look so downcast, Freddy. What's done cannot be mended, and your father insists on paying me back the money I lost, or, rather, the money you gave away," Dr. Dennis amended, with a slight smile.
"I am glad of that," Freddy replied, looking up with a brightening face. "I hoped he would, but I didn't like to ask him."
After the doctor had left the room the boys turned again to their lessons. By-and-by Claude finished his work for the night and went downstairs, and a few minutes later Edwin closed his books and prepared to follow his brother, but, on reaching the door, he chanced to look back and met Freddy's eyes fixed upon him with a wistful sadness in their glance which touched his kind heart.
"I say, don't worry any more about father's old coat," he said good-naturedly.
"I won't," Freddy answered. "Uncle's forgiven me, and—and I've had it out with father—oh, he feels it dreadfully; and I never shall forget how sorry he looked and all he said!—and we're not going to talk about it any more; but—oh, Edwin, will you ever like me again?"
"Of course I'll like you, Freddy. What nonsense you talk!"
"But you'll never trust me again—you can't. That was a big lie I told you, Edwin!"
"Yes, it was. I knew it at the time, and it made me terribly unhappy—the thought that you could tell an untruth like that."
"I never told such a lie before, and I never will again," Freddy declared earnestly. "It made me miserable, and I couldn't say my prayers or ask to be forgiven."
"But you can now, Freddy?"
Freddy nodded, too overcome for speech. Very sincerely had he repented of the falsehood he had told, whilst the coolness which had sprung up between him and Edwin had been a great trouble to him.
"That's all right then," his cousin said approvingly. "I don't want to preach to you, but there's nothing like being truthful and straight; it's a great thing to be able to rely upon a person's word."
"That's what father says," Freddy rejoined, finding his voice again; "he says if I grow up trustworthy that will please him more than anything. I'm going to try to be that for the future. Are we friends again, Edwin?"
"Certainly," was the cordial answer. "I believe I hear Uncle Frederick's voice downstairs. Make haste and finish your work."
What a relief it was to Freddy to have no secret to conceal, though it humiliated him exceedingly to know that even the servants were aware of how foolishly and secretively he had acted. Everyone treated him with the utmost consideration, and even Mr. Collins, who had been grievously disappointed in his little son, when he saw how truly repentant he was, did all he could to smooth matters for him, and accompanied him to see Bobby Lambert, who was gaining strength every day and hoped to be about again before Christmas.
One Saturday afternoon, a few days before the school which the boys attended broke up for the Christmas holidays, Mr. and Mrs. Collins called for Freddy and his cousins to go shopping with them.
"Do you want all of us?" demanded Poppy excitedly, on being told to put on her hat and jacket.
"Yes," Mrs. Collins assented, laughing, "all of you. We want to buy some Christmas presents, and you know the best shops, don't you?"
"Of course," the little girl agreed, wondering whom the presents were intended for. "This is nice," she said confidentially, ten minutes later, as she walked up High Street beside her new aunt, whilst her uncle followed with the boys; "I like looking at the shops decorated for Christmas, don't you? If you haven't much money to spend you can think what you'd buy if you had. Last year Mr. Henley—he's a patient of father's—sent us a big turkey, and a lot of candied fruits and sweets, and he gave father money to give away—wasn't that kind of him? He's old, and he's generally ill, and—oh, dear me—he's dreadfully grumpy in his manner, but father says he has a very good heart."
"He must be a nice old man," Mrs. Collins remarked, smiling at the little girl's prattle. "Now, you must think of what your father and mother would like best for presents; your uncle and I want you young folks to give us the benefit of your advice, you know your parents' tastes."
What a delightful afternoon that was, spent in wandering from shop to shop. Mr. and Mrs. Collins bought suitable presents for every member of the doctor's household, and so long did it take the children deciding upon the various articles to suit each one's liking that it was past five o'clock before they had completed their purchases.
"The afternoon has been like a beautiful dream," said Poppy happily, as they turned their steps homewards at last. The little girl was carrying a large cardboard box containing a handsomely bound album for picture postcards—her aunt and uncle's present to her—which she declined to have sent. "I think Christmas is the nicest time of the year; I only wish we could all spend it together."
"Never mind, Poppy, you're all to stay at Marldon Court next summer, if all's well, that's settled," Freddy told her; "and I'm coming back again next term—father has arranged that with Uncle Jo."
"Has he? I'm glad," she answered, "for you've turned out much better than we expected, Freddy, although you did give away father's old coat."
"Oh, by the way, have you heard that Mr. Henley is going to pay for sending Bobby Lambert to a convalescent home in the country where he will soon get well, father believes?" Edwin inquired of his uncle. "Yes, indeed, it is so. He is to go soon after Christmas."
"I'm very pleased to hear it," Mr. Collins responded heartily. "Freddy must go and see him before he leaves B—, and take him a Christmas-box; and that good little sister of his who has nursed him so devotedly shall not be forgotten. We will try to give them a happy Christmas if it lies within our power to do so."
"Thank you, oh, thank you!" Freddy exclaimed gratefully, for he regarded the Lamberts in the light of especial friends of his own, and he knew his father was always as good as his word.
A cold, wintry morning, three days later, saw the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Collins and Freddy from B—. The doctor and his sons went to the station to see them off; and as the train steamed out of the platform, Freddy popped his head out of the carriage window, and shouted his last farewell.
"Good-bye, Uncle Jo! Good-bye, boys! Mind you remember your promise and write and tell me how Bobby Lambert gets on, Edwin. Good-bye!"
"How he has altered of late," Edwin remarked reflectively, as he and Claude followed their father out of the station. "I consider he's wonderfully improved. I wonder if he will really come back next term. I expect he'll want to stay at Marldon Court, once he's there again."
But Edwin was wrong, for though Freddy was blissfully content to be at home once more, and spent a very happy Christmas with his father and step-mother, he missed the society of his cousins, and often felt dull without them. He was surprised himself that he was able to contemplate his return to B— with perfect equanimity. It was not that he loved his father less than he had previously done, or that he no longer appreciated the beautiful hills and dales surrounding his home, but that his views of life had widened, and he had found new interests. He enjoyed a ride on his pony across country as much as he ever had; but his three months' sojourn beneath his uncle's roof had changed him greatly for the better. He was no longer always thinking of himself, and planning for his own enjoyment; he was more considerate for others, and, in short, Master Frederick had fallen in his own estimation, and was a much nicer boy on that account.
"Father, I've had a letter from Edwin this morning," Freddy informed Mr. Collins soon after Christmas, "such a long letter, telling me what a happy Christmas they've had. I'm so glad! He says Bobby Lambert's a lot better, and is going to the convalescent home very soon. I'm sure Bobby's a nice boy; I believe those Lamberts are as honest as the day."
"That's saying a good deal, my son. I am pleased, however, that your second protégé is turning out better than your first."
"My first?" Freddy said questioningly; then seeing the twinkle in his father's eye, he laughed. "I know what you mean; you're thinking of that old bootlace seller. Father—" and the boy's tone grew impressive— "when I'm tempted to do anything not quite straight again, do you know what I shall think of, and I know it will prevent my doing it? Why, I shall think of the way I behaved about Uncle Jo's old coat."
LORIMER AND CHALMERS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.