many vigorous pairs of feet have stamped up and down in their day, and reach the school-room.
It is a battered old place enough; walls, books, floor, and chairs are the one as disreputable as the other. A little passage runs out of this room into another of the same size, formerly a place of resort for old books, lumber, and sulky or ill-used people; now it is bare and primitive enough, with its four-poster, scanty chairs, plain toilette table, and dingy washstand. The windows, opening to the ground like those of the school-room, and looking out over the court, are open.
The bed is made, and I proceed to undress Wattie, who is evidently much struck by the novelty of everything. He is not afraid though, and he does not cry; he is too brave a boy for that. I am wondering perplexedly what I can put on him in the shape of a nightgown, when nurse comes in with one of Daisy's old night garments for him.
"Eh! Miss Nell," she says, after her old fashion, "and are you going to get yourself into more trouble? The bairn ought to be with his mother."
"Only he is not, you see," I say, tying the strings of Wattie's night-gear. "Nurse, have you heard about Symonds?"
"I have, Miss Nell, and I fear me the poor wean has run a terrible risk."
"Hush!" I cry sharply, just as I bade Simpkins hold his peace. "It is never possible to tell, nurse; you said so yourself the other day. You know it passes over one person to take another, and it is impossible to tell."
"Eh!" she says again, doubtfully; and I could beat her that she will speak to me no word of comfort.
Wattie is ready for bed, but Wattie will not go. He has escaped from me and is dancing to and fro on the carpet, where the sunbeams are playing at hide and seek; his little pink and white toes
