38 Turnaside Cottage.

“Late?” he answered to my _ remonstrance.
“ There’s time enough, heaps on it; we shan’t be
apast no time getting there. But, goodness me,
Reuben,” he exclaimed, stopping short, “them ain’t
your Sunday clothes !”

“It’s all I’ve got,” said I, looking down mourn-
fully, for I felt keenly the difference between
Tommy’s spruceness and my shabbiness.

“Well, I call it a real shame!” pronounced
Tommy. “And there’s your shirt—my goodness!”

“Nance said she had not time to get me a clean
one on Saturday,” said I.

“Wouldn't I call her, if I was you!” cried
Tommy. “You can’t go to church a this way,
whatever. Wait you a bit for all, I'll show you
what TP'll do”—and back ran Tommy into his grand-
father’s house. He came out again with a crimson
woollen comforter, which he tied round my neck,
and tucked down so as completely to hide the ob-
jectionable shirt.

“That will do first-rate !” pronounced he, retiring
to admire the effect. It must have looked rather
odd, for it was a warm summer evening, and the
comforter was, I confess, far too hot to deserve its
name.

“Had not I better go home, perhaps?” said I,
hesitating.