boy; but when a fortnight over the two months had passed, Cyril could
see that the fisherman was becoming anxious. Regularly, on his return
from the fishing, he inquired if letters had arrived, and seemed much
put out when he heard that there was no news. One day, when Cyril was
in the garden that surrounded the cottage, he heard him say to his
wife,--

"Well, I will say nothing about it until after the next voyage, and
then if we don't hear, the boy must do something for his living. I
can take him in the boat with me; he can earn his victuals in that
way. If he won't do that, I shall wash my hands of him altogether,
and he must shift for himself. I believe his father has left him with
us for good. We were wrong in taking him only on the recommendation
of Mr. Felton. I have been inquiring about his father, and hear
little good of him."

Cyril, as soon as the fisherman had gone, stole up to his little
room. He was but twelve years old, and he threw himself down on his
bed and cried bitterly. Then a thought struck him; he went to his
box, and took out from it a sealed parcel; on it was written, "To my
son. This parcel is only to be opened should you find yourself in
great need, Your Loving Mother." He remembered how she had placed it
in his hands a few hours before her death, and had said to him,--

"Put this away, Cyril. I charge you let no one see it. Do not speak
of it to anyone--not even to your father. Keep it as a sacred gift,
and do not open it unless you are in sore need. It is for you, and
you alone. It is the sole thing that I have to leave you; use it with
discretion. I fear that hard times will come upon you."