Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

by B. L. Farjeon

'George pipe his eye! Not him! He's a man is George--not one of your crying sort.'

'I don't know about that,' gasps Jim Naldret; 'a man may be crying although you don't see the tears running down his face. Ugh!'

There was something apposite to his own condition in this remark, for Jim's eyes were smarting and watering in consequence of the soap getting into them.

'That's true, Jim. Many a one's heart cries when the eyes are dry.'

'I can't get over Mr. Million getting that passage-ticket for George. I can't get over it, mother. It's bothered me ever so much.'

'Well, it's only steerage, Jim, and you can't say that it wasn't kind of Mr. Million.'

'I don't know so much about that, mother.'

'Do you know, Jim,' says Mrs. Naldret, after a pause, during which both seem to be thinking of something that they deem it not prudent or wise to speak about, 'that I've sometimes fancied----' Here the old black cat rubs itself against her ankles, and she stoops to fondle it, which perhaps is the reason why she does not complete the sentence.

'Fancied what, mother?

'That young Mr. Million was fond of Bessie.'