With Giles Mortimer’s man-physique and mind there was a woman’s sensitiveness, and a will that could not always bear the shock of opposition. A mountain is not all quartz, studded with jasper and amethyst, nor is it all trap, brown and coarse. All lives are elements from God’s great storehouse, and earth a crucible which melts and moulds. He needed what most men need, the stimulus of love to give position or wealth or fame; the encouragement of a voice that has inspiration in it; the touch of a hand that carries hope in its pressure; the look of an eye that shines like a lone star on a dark night. He had seen some who might have walked beside him, but for his fear of taking them from a hall to a hovel. He went to a strange city. Counting-rooms were filled, and clerkships engaged for months in advance. He knew no trade, or he might have worked and given honor to that. At last he obtained a place in a hardware establishment, and for two years, on a small salary, the student did uncongenial work to live; then the firm failed, and he was again adrift. He would have loved manufacturing; he would have been proud to have aided America with the labor of his brain and hands combined; but the old question, the one that has settled upon and crushed so many young men, came back—“What business can be carried on without money?” Many men have struggled through poverty up to affluence. Many more have struggled in it down to a grave. There are not wanting those who tell us that every man may succeed, if he will; and yet ninety of every hundred who enter the whirlpool of trade are lost.