Life ran along in the ordinary ruts for three or four years, but always Peter and Robert were antagonists.  If Rundell happened to get to the top of the class, Robert never rested till he had excelled and displaced him; and then it was Peter’s turn to do likewise till he too succeeded.

Robert, when in the mood, was eager and brilliant, and nothing seemed able to stay him.  At times, however, he was given to dreaming, and lived through whole days in the classroom quite unconscious of what was going on around him.  He worked mechanically, living in a strange world of his own creation, usually waking up to find himself at the foot of the class with Peter smiling at the top.

Often he went hungry, for times were still hard, and the family had increased to six.  It was a bitter struggle in which Mrs. Sinclair was engaged to try and feed—­let alone clothe—­her hungry children.  Patient, plodding, and terrible self-sacrifices alone enabled her to accomplish what she did.  It was always a question of getting sufficient food rather than aiming at any particular kind.  It was quantity rather than quality that was her biggest problem, for the children had sharp appetites and could make a feast of the simplest material.  A pot of potatoes, boiled with their “jackets” on, tumbled on to the center of the bare, uncovered table and a little salt placed in small heaps at the exact position where each person sat, a large bowl of butter-milk when it could be got, with a tablespoon for each with which to lift a spoonful of the milk, and thus was set the banquet of the miner’s family.

“Mither, Rob’s taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o’ tattie,” little Mary would say.

“Ay, an’ what did you do?” Robert would reply.  “When you thought naebody was lookin’, you took three spoonfu’ to yae wee tattie.  I was watchin’ you.”

“Now that’ll do,” the mother would admonish them.  “Try and make it gang as far as ye can.  Here you!” she would raise her voice to another, “dinna be so greedy on it.  The rest maun get some too.”  At this the guilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking more than his share.

Robert’s dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordid surroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of his imagination.  Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a place for him to fill in the hearts of men.  Vague stirrings told him of great future events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled his body.

One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all at play, Robert and Peter again came into conflict.  Some girls were playing at a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedly looking on.  He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and already the sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in every dream.  Mysie’s modesty and grace appealed to him and the strange magnetic power of soul for soul was continually