laudation, he brought forth now a variety of casts and moulds and spread them on the table. His latest piece of work was a medal in high relief bearing the heads of the Prince and Princess of Wales surrounded with a wreath. Bob had no political convictions; with complacency he drew these royal features, the sight of which would have made his father foam at the mouth. True, he might have found subjects artistically more satisfying, but he belonged to the people, and the English people.
Jack Bartley, having dried his eyes and swallowed his bread and butter, considered the medal with much attention. “I say,” he remarked at length, “will you give me this, Bob?”
“I don’t mind. You can take it if you like.”
“Thanks!”
Jack wrapped it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket, and before long rose to take leave of his friends.
“I only wish I’d got a wife like you,” he observed at the door, as he saw Pennyloaf bending over the two children, recently put to bed.
