Mr. Marbell emptied his glass, and with two
delicate fingers dropped his first cool olive into
his mouth. The oracle had spoken.

An east wind was curling the autumn leaves,
and compelling cabmen to draw their horse-cloths
tightly about their legs, on the evening when
the oracle held forth from his cosy temple, with
a beechwood fire happily mingled with sea-coal
upon its altar.

Master Gussy was up-stairs. He was in bed.
Six o'clock was his bedtime. In a corner of
an empty room was a hard straw palliasse upon
the naked ground; two rugs covered it—suffi-
cient, in the opinion of Mr. Marbell (below, now,
eating his olives), for the covering of a boy
destined to rough it. There the little Spartan
lies, sleeping with all the grace of ten years:
his arms under his cheek, his mouth parted, and
his white teeth glancing through. There are two
red patches upon his cheeks; around, the flesh is
milky white. We glance about. There are his
coarse blue clothes; there is his little canvas
shirt, buttonless at the throat. But we look in
vain for socks or shoes.

"Dear me, sir," chimes Rachel, " Master
Gussy doesn't wear none, please, sir."

On these bitter days—through this frigid
mire of our London roads—under these watery
skies—fronting this sharp sleet of ours, to go
barefoot!

"Master says he's to be a Sparting; but it's
my belief they'll kill him—so there, I've said it."

Rachel assumed a daring attitude, as though
she had chanted the " Marseillaise" under the
Tuileries windows—and more, had fully intended
it for the ear of the master within.

"Then the child has breakfasts, as no dog
what respected his-self would so much as look
at; and for his dinners—why, they make my
heart break to see his poor little teeth a tussling
with 'em."

Rachel looked tenderly upon the sleeping boy,
drew the coarse rugs (saying, " Here's things to
cover a child!") about his limbs, and kissed him.

Surely Gussy's mother is looking down upon
you, gentle, uncouth Rachel. Looking down,
and hoping that you see her; and that you will
still, again and again, kiss Gussy for her. Slave
at ten pounds per annum, we believe that, as
you say, you would not stop another hour under
Mr. Marbell's roof if it were not for Gussy.
But then—we trust you know and feel it—how
sweet it is of an evening to come into this
empty room, and know that as you watch this
little sleeper, and cover his bruised and har-
dened feet, somebody far above this garret is
watching you, and thanking you. Not that this
goodness of yours seeks reward; but there must
be comfort in the faith that you are doing a
double good here in your humble way—to
Gussy, and to Gussy's mother. We were by,
good Rachel, though you saw us not, when
those big, red hands of yours drew with a ten-
derness of heart that made them light as any
lady's, the thorns from poor Gussy's feet. But
there will be thorns in them again to-morrow,
and again the day after, till the flesh has har-
dened, and can resist them. As Gussy's soul is
to harden, as Gussy's muscles are to harden.

We call Gussy to mind years after we glanced
into his dreary bedroom; after Rachel had been
discharged for giving a slice of bread and sugar
to her little master; after the neighbourhood in
which Mr. Marbell lived rung with shouts of
indignation against Gussy's father.

Mr. Marbell had retired from business at
length, in order to devote all his energies to the
hardening of Gussy. That he might superintend
the icy coldness of his nursery; the scantiness
of his bed-covering; the plainness of his food;
his isolation from other boys. Day after day,
Gussy, barefooted, without hat or cap, his throat
open, and his hair cropped close to his skull,
passed our gate, walking, or rather ambling,
behind his father. We fail to call to mind an
occasion on which we saw father and son ex-
change a syllable. Mr. Marbell, with a solemn
expression, to which the brandishing of a sub-
stantial crab-stick gave intensity of an un-
pleasantly suggestive kind, walked rapidly ahead
always; and Gussy, looking at the parental
coat-tails, and never removing his eyes from
them, ambled, as we have written, after him.
The throat of Gussy was milky white still, the
cheeks red as a carnation. Old women turned
upon Mr. Marbell as he passed; young women
turned upon Mr. Marbell as he passed, and
spoke passionately—the nature of their woman-
hood overbearing their sense of propriety.
Nicknames of most offensive import were
showered upon Gussy's father. He was a
child-killer; he was " Old Tombstone;" he bore,
successively, the name of every remarkable mur-
derer known to the street-folk about his neigh-
bourhood. He was hissed, hooted at, and
greeted with a gymnastic arrangement of little
boys' fingers, the thumb acting as a fulcrum
against the little boys' noses. But both Mr.
Marbell and Gussy passed through the fusillade,
without glancing to the right or left.

We were standing at our gate one day, on a
glowing summer morning. There was a pale
heat film over the deep blue sky. The heat
struck us under the chin from the burning earth.
We felt that we could not bear the situation
many minutes. Lazily, heat-oppressed, we were
about to turn from the dusty prospect without,
when Mr. Marbell walked past, at his usual
pace, and Gussy was behind him—still ambling
—his eye still fixed upon the parental coat-tails.
The blazing sun was scorching Gussy's uncovered
head, we were certain; his lips were white, and
we thought the blood almost oozed through
those two red spots upon his cheeks. We were
tempted to dash through the gate, and seize Mr.
Marbell by the collar, and take his hat and boots
off, and drag him to a barber to have his head
shaved. But (how prudent we become at five-
and-thirty!) we turned homeward, and left
Gussy to be scorched by the sun, and still, with
starting eyes, to follow the coat-tails of his father.

On the following day a sweet little friend of
ours, whose voice makes us twenty again, whom
there are " few to praise," and whom there shall