“Why, what have we to be ashamed of?” said Henry. “’Tisn’t as if we sat twiddling our thumbs and howling, ‘We have seen better days.’  And ’tisn’t as if we asked favors of anybody.  For my part I don’t care who knows I am here, and can make three hundred a year with my own hands and wrong no man.  I’d rather be a good workman in wood and steel than an arrogant old fool like your b—.  No, I won’t own him for yours or mine either—­call him Raby.  Well, I wouldn’t change places with him, nor any of his sort:  I’m a British workman, and worth a dozen Rabys—­useless scum!”

“That you are, dear; so don’t demean yourself to give any of them lessons.  Her godfather would be sure to hear of it.”

“Well, I won’t, to please you.  But you have no more pluck than a chicken—­begging your pardon, mother.”

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Little, humbly, quite content to gain her point and lose her reputation for pluck; if any.

Henry worked regularly, and fast, and well, and in less than a fortnight a new set of his carving-tools were on view in Hillsborough, and another in London; for it was part of Mr. Cheetham’s strategy to get all the London orders, and even make London believe that these superior instruments had originated in Hillsborough.

One day Miss Carden called and saw Bayne in the office.  Her vivid features wore an expression of vexation, and she complained to him that the wood-carver had never been near her.

Bayne was surprised at that; but he was a man who always allayed irritation on the spot.  “Rely on it, there’s some reason,” said he.  “Perhaps he has not got settled.  I’ll go for him directly.”

“Thank you,” said the young lady.  Then in the same breath, “No, take me to him, and perhaps we may catch him carving—­cross thing!”

Bayne assented cheerfully, and led the way across a yard, and up a dirty stone stair, which, solid as it was, vibrated with the powerful machinery that steam was driving on every side of it.  He opened a door suddenly, and Henry looked up from his work, and saw the invaders.

He stared a little at first, and then got up and looked embarrassed and confused.

“You did not keep your word, sir,” said Grace, quietly.

“No,” he muttered, and hung his head.

He seemed so confused and ashamed, that Bayne came to his assistance.  “The fact is, no workman likes to do a hand’s-turn on Saturday afternoon.  I think they would rather break Sunday than Saturday.”

“It is not that,” said Henry, in a low voice.

Grace heard him, but answered Mr. Bayne:  “Oh dear, I wish I had known.  I fear I have made an unreasonable request:  for, of course, after working so hard all the week—­but then why did you let me purchase the tools to carve with?  Papa says they are very dear, Mr. Bayne.  But that is what gentlemen always say if one buys anything that is really good.  But of course they will be dear, if I am not to be taught how to use them.”  She then looked in Mr. Bayne’s face with an air of infantine simplicity:  “Would Mr. Cheetham take them back, I wonder, under the circumstances?”