'I don't believe it! She's a good-hearted girl--'

A heavy footstep on the stairs checked him. The door was thrown
open, and there entered a youth of nineteen, clad as an artisan. He
was a shapely fellow, though not quite so stout as perfect health
would have made him, and had a face of singular attractiveness,
clear-complexioned, delicate featured, a-gleam with intelligence.
The intelligence was perhaps even too pronounced; seen in profile,
the countenance had an excessive eagerness; there was selfish force
about the lips, moreover, which would have been better away. His
noisy entrance indicated an impulsive character, and the nod with
which he greeted Kirkwood was self-sufficient.

'Where's that medal I cast last night, mother?' he asked, searching
in various corners of the room and throwing things about.

'Now, do mind what you're up to, Bob!' remonstrated Mrs. Hewett.
'You'll find it on the mantel in the other room. Don't make such a
noise.'

The young man rushed forth, and in a moment returned. In his hand,
which was very black, and shone as if from the manipulation of
metals, he held a small bright medal. He showed it to Sidney,
saying, 'What d'you think o' that?'

The work was delicate and of clever design; it represented a
racehorse at full speed, a jockey rising in the stirrups and beating
it with orthodox brutality.

'That's "Tally-ho" at the Epsom Spring Meetin',' he said. 'I've got