Summer Loaning went straggling up a hill, or brae, for fully half a mile, and one glance at the street would have convinced you that, although not a slum by any means, it was the abode of the hard-working poor. People lived here on landings and flats, many families occupying but two rooms, many having to content themselves with only one. The common stairways, generally of stone, went winding up and up from closes—called in England courts—often five or even six stories high. If the landlord of these tenements happened to be a good sort of a fellow, then the staircases might be lighted in winter by tiny jets of gas no bigger than farthing rush-lights; but as often as not they were shrouded in darkness and gloom, and the dwellers in these stone castles had to "glamp" their way up, as it is called, by feeling along the damp, cold walls.

There was poverty enough, though, in Summer Loaning when sickness came, or when the want of work induced it; for trouble haunts the abodes of the hungry and needful. Many a little coffin, in times like these, was manoeuvred down those steep stone stairs, and borne quietly away to the cemetery or Necropolis, which was not a great distance off. Usually a few neighbours went along, and then a kind of funeral procession would be formed. But often, when the coffin was very tiny indeed, the father himself would trudge along with it under his arm, accompanied, perhaps, by his sad-eyed wife; both dressed in black clothes that, more than likely, had been borrowed from kindly neighbours for the occasion. Yes, I said kindly neighbours; for the poor to the poor are ever kind.

This was the sort of neighbourhood in which Jack Mackenzie had hitherto spent most of his young days. And hard indeed his life had been, pinched for food, ragged in clothes, and often cold as well as hungry. Jack had never been to school in his life; but his mother, though in poverty now, had seen far better days, and right well she knew the advantage of a good education in enabling either boy or man to do battle with the world, and so she spent half her time in teaching her two children. It was stitch, stitch, stitch with her now all day long just to get ends to meet. From her poor, thin face you might have said she was not long for this world, and that while sewing at a shirt she was making her shroud. But even while at work, Jack and his sister would be busy at their books, or with their slates.

They lived in one room, and every article in it betokened poverty, although all was cleanly. The ferns and flowers in the window above the "jaw-box," where water was drawn and toilets performed, threw a little of nature into this poor apartment, and a solitary canary made it even cheerful, for he sang as joyously as if his cage had been of gilded wire and all his surroundings the best in the city. Neither of the children was unhappy, and they dearly loved their mother. They never grumbled, either, at their scanty fare—and, O dear reader, it was scanty enough at times. A little oatmeal porridge washed down with a halfpennyworth of blue skimmed milk was all their breakfast; and their supper, too, was much the same.

But Jack was a brave provider, and a capital hand at marketing. No one knew better than he how to make a bargain, or how far six or seven pence would go in the purchase of meal, coals, herrings, and a little tea and sugar for mother. In fact, the whole outdoor management of the family devolved upon little Johnnie Greybreeks, as everybody on the great staircase called him. And very proud indeed he was to be looked upon as purser or paymaster. Often his sister went out with him on his foraging expeditions; but although she was some years older than Johnnie, she had not the boy's knowledge of the world and of mankind. It seems almost ridiculous to talk of a boy of eight years of age knowing anything about the world; but poverty sharpens the wits, I do assure you.

It is said that poverty is a hard taskmaster. Well, perhaps,—and doubtless it is a very exacting one; but, nevertheless, some of the greatest geniuses, generals, statesmen, and thinkers have been brought up in just such schools as Johnnie's, and have been all the better for it. So poor boys must never let down their hearts, but just work, work, work; read, read, read; and think, think, think. Remember the story of Dick Whittington. It is only a kind of fairy romance, you may tell me. Ah! but there is a deal of truth in it; and some very poor lads have become presidents even of the great American republic, and a president is a cut above Lord Mayor of London. So, hurrah! who cares for poverty? Don't forget those spirited lines of Robbie Burns, the great Scottish poet. Yes, Scottish poet, but the British people's poet as well, and the poet of the people of every country where true freedom reigns.

"Is there for honest poverty
That hides his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
* * * *
"What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that;
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er so poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!"

CHAPTER III.
MRS. MALONY'S WEDDING-RING.

Poor Mrs. Mackenzie's story had been a very sad one. And it was one that is, alas! too common. It does not take long to tell.