reflections bore this significance. Bob was raised for ever above
the rank of those who depend merely upon their muscles, even as
Clara was saved from the dismal destiny of the women who can do
nothing but sew.

There was, on the whole, some reason why John Hewett should feel
pride in his eldest son. Like Sidney Kirkwood, Bob had early shown a
faculty for draughtsmansbip; when at school, he made decidedly
clever caricatures of such persons as displeased him, and he drew
such wonderful horses (on the race-course or pulling cabs), such
laughable donkeys in costers' carts, such perfect dogs, that on
several occasions some friend had purchased with a veritable
shilling a specimen of his work. 'Put him to the die-sinking,' said
an acquaintance of the family, himself so employed; 'he'll find a
use for this kind of thing some day.' Die-sinking is not the craft
it once was; cheap methods, vulgarising here as everywhere, have
diminished the opportunities of capable men; but a fair living was
promised the lad if he stuck to his work, and at the age of nineteen
he was already earning his pound a week. Then he was clever in a
good many other ways. He had an car for music, played (nothing else
was within his reach) the concertina, sang a lively song with
uncommon melodiousness--a gift much appreciated at the meetings of
a certain Mutual Benefit Club, to which his father had paid a weekly
subscription, without fail, through all adversities. In the regular
departments of learning Bob had never shown any particular aptitude;
he wrote and read decently, but his speech, as you have had occasion
for observing, was not marked by refinement, and for books he had no
liking. His father, unfortunately, had spoilt him, just as he had
spoilt Clara. Being of the nobly independent sex, between fifteen
and sixteen he practically free himself from parental control. The