you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?"

Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britska--it had been his
brother's: the lawyer followed, and they drove away.

A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the
conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely
touched food since Beaufort's death. She was worn to a shadow; her hair
had turned grey. Now she had at last found tears, and she wept
noiselessly but unceasingly.

The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in his basket:
he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than the rest, when
his hand was roughly seized; and the gruff voice of John Green, the
gardener, exclaimed:

"What are you about, Master Philip? you must not touch them 'ere fruit!"

"How dare you, fellow!" cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equal
astonishment and, wrath.

"None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some great
folks are coming too look at the place tomorrow; and I won't have my show
of fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, that's
plain, Master Philip!"

The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to
retaliate the insolence he had received, continued:

"You need not go for to look so spiteful, master; you are not the great