for it was a month ago, or more, that you began to learn it. You know that, don't you?"

Poor little Smith made no reply; but, still seated on the ground, he hugged his treasure, and looked up imploringly into the face of his monitor. He could read no pity there; and, looking downwards, a big tear-drop or two fell upon the flower.

"Oh! blubbering, are you? you little milksop. Come, none of that; now, put down that stupid bit of earthenware, and let us hear what you know. Now then, do you mind? put it down, I say, directly."

The frightened boy did as he was ordered. "Now mind," said the young tyrant; "if you don't answer every question, I shall just make an end of that flower you make such a fuss about; do you hear?" And, saying this, he snatched up the flowerpot, and held it in

his left hand.

"Oh, no, no, no; pray, pray, Mr. Bowler," cried the poor child beseechingly, and springing to his feet," don't, please don't. I will do anything you tell me, if I can; and I will learn the table directly; but don't kill my poor flower. Oh, you don't know how I love it!"

"Oh, love it, do you? Well, I don't care for that; and you need not think to come over me by calling me mister. I am no mister yet, but plain Jack; and I shall do just what I said; so here goes."

Mansfield was standing a little way off; and the unhappy young Cumbrian turned his eyes towards him, as much as to say, "Will you not take my part?" But the imploring look was unseen, or unnoticed, and again the boy stood despairingly before his tormentor: he was convinced that he would not be able to answer the questions put to him: he had been for days and weeks labouring at the multiplication table, but in vain; and the more he had striven, the more confused had he become.

"Here goes,” shouted Bowler, again grasping the flower roughly with his right hand: "Twelve times seven, how many?"

66

Seventy-two," gasped the poor boy, after a short pause, and almost unconscious of what he said.

The next moment the broken flower-pot, and the mould it had contained, were strewed at his feet, and the tyrant was tearing to pieces the flower, root and branch. "There, and there, and there!" he shouted exultingly. "I told you I would do it. Twelve times seven is seventy-two, is it? Ha, ha."

Poor Tom uttered one sorrowful moan as he looked at the scattered fragments of his pet plant. "My mother, my dear, dear mother!" he sobbed, and turned away.

"Bowler, I say Bowler, what have you been doing to the boy?" exclaimed Mansfield angrily, his attention at length roused by the

loud tones of the one, and the broken sob of the other: "what have you been doing, I say?"

"What is that to you?" responded the tyrant; "what business have you to interfere?"

"It is something to me; and I won't stand by and see a little fellow misused, whoever he may be. What has he done to you, Tom? Did he strike you?"

"Oh no," sobbed the boy. He could say no more; but pointed to the broken pot and ruined flower.

"Oh, is that all? Never mind; I'll get you another flower-pot and all-and let me see if he dare touch that. What is it all about? Come now, tell me."

"Just you tell me one thing," shouted Bowler, reddening with rage: "Are you monitor of the sixth desk, or am I?"

"You are; and I am monitor of the third," replied Mansfield. "Well, what then?" have no business to come between me and my boys; and you shan't either."

66 Then

66

you

Gently, Mr. Monitor of the sixth," replied Mansfield coolly. "If I see you ill treating any boy-yours, mine, or anybody else's-I shall interfere. And more than that, you know who else would interfere if I were to choose to tell that you have been domineering. So you had better be quiet."

For some reason or other, Bowler thought