Rodney was rapidly developing into a strong sturdy lad.  He was the joy of the house, and though of a most loveable disposition, he was like a will-o’-the-wisp, full of fun and life.  He spent most of the time out of doors in summer among the birds and flowers.  There was hardly a creature in the vicinity of the rectory which he did not know.  He found birds’ nests in the most unlikely places, and he often caused Parson Dan many a tramp, as he eagerly pointed out his numerous treasures in tree, field, or vine-covered fence.  It was often hard for the clergyman to keep up with his young guide, who sped on before, his bare, curly hair gleaming like gold in the sun.  Then, when he had parted several small bushes and exposed the nest of a grey-bird or a robin, his cheeks would glow with animation, and his eyes sparkle with delight.  Parson Dan found more pleasure in watching this joy-thrilled lad than in the tiny eggs which were exhibited for his benefit.

This was an almost daily occurrence through the summer.  Then at night, when tired with his day’s rambles, Rodney would rest his head upon the soft pillow while Mrs. Royal read him to sleep.  Stories he loved, and never wearied of them.  One by one the books were brought from the Room of Sacred Memories until the boy knew them all.

“Did you read all of those books when you were little, Grandma?” Rodney once asked.

“Not when I was little, dear,” was the quiet reply.  “But I read them to a little boy, though, who was as fond of them then as you are now.”

“Whose little boy was he, Grandma?”

“He was my little boy, Rodney.”

“Was he?  Isn’t that funny?  I didn’t know that.  What was his name?”

“It was Alec.”

“And where is he now?”

“He grew to be a big man, and one day he went away from home, and—­and I never saw him again.”

“What are you crying for, Grandma?” the boy, asked, suddenly noticing that tears were streaming down Mrs. Royal’s cheeks.

“I was thinking of my boy Alec, dear.  He went away and never came back.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Because he was killed.”

“Oh!” and Rodney clasped his hands together,

“How was he killed, Grandma?”

“He was on a train which ran off the track.  Many people were killed, and Alec was one of them.”

“And that was his room, was it?” Rodney asked.  “And those were his books which he had when he was a little boy?”

“Yes, dear.  But go to sleep now, and I shall tell you more about Alec some other time.”

So free was the life which Rodney led, that some of the neighbours often shook their heads, and prophesied trouble.

“If that boy Rod Royal isn’t looked after more’n he is he will come to a bad end, mark my word,” Tom Dunker ponderously remarked to his wife one evening.  “He’s runnin’ wild, that’s what he is.”

“Well, what can you expect of a pauper child?” his wife replied.