“I don’t know that quite. I am not just prepared to admit it for my own sake. My father is a lawyer, and I never could read a chapter in one of his books—his tools, you know.” “Perhaps you never tried, sir.” “Indeed, I did; and no doubt I could have done it if I had made up my mind to it. But I never felt inclined to finish the page. And that reminds me why I called to-day. Thomas, I know that lad of yours is fond of reading. Can you spare him from his work for an hour or so before breakfast?” “To-morrow, sir?” “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” I answered; “and there’s Shakespeare for you.” “Of course, sir, whatever you wish,” said Thomas, with a perplexed look, in which pleasure seemed to long for confirmation, and to be, till that came, afraid to put its “native semblance on.” “I want to give him some direction in his reading. When a man is fond of any tools, and can use them, it is worth while showing him how to use them better.” “Oh, thank you, sir!” exclaimed Tom, his face beaming with delight. “That IS kind of you, sir! Tom, you’re a made man!” cried the father. “So,” I went on, “if you will let him come to me for an hour every morning, till he gets another place, say from eight to nine, I will see what I can do for him.” Tom’s face was as red with delight as his sister’s had been with anger. And I left the shop somewhat consoled for the pain I had given Catherine, which grieved me without making me sorry that I had occasioned it. I had intended to try to do something from the father’s side towards a reconciliation with his daughter. But no sooner had I made up my proposal for Tom than I saw I had blocked up my own way towards my more important end. For I could not bear to seem to offer to bribe him even to allow me to do him good. Nor would he see that it was for his good and his daughter’s—not at first. The first impression would be that I had a PROFESSIONAL end to gain, that the reconciling of father and daughter was a sort of parish business of mine, and that I had smoothed the way to it by offering a gift—an intellectual one, true, but not, therefore, the less a gift in the eyes of Thomas, who had a great respect for books. This was just what would irritate such a man, and I resolved to say nothing about it, but bide my time. When Tom came, I asked him if he had read any of Wordsworth. For I always give people what I like myself, because that must be wherein I can best help them. I was anxious, too, to find out what he was capable of. And for this, anything that has more than a surface meaning will do. I had no doubt about the lad’s intellect, and now I wanted to see what there was deeper than the intellect in him. He said he had not.