Powys sat down again, and leaned on the table, and looked across at his master, his benefactor. That was how the young man was calling him in his heart. His eyes were shining as eyes only do after they have been moistened by tears. They were soft, tender, eager, moved by those last words into a deeper gratitude still, an emotion which awoke all his faculties. “If I have any capabilities,” he said, “I wish they were a hundred and a hundred times more. I can’t tell you, sir--you can’t imagine--how much you have done for me in a moment. And I was ashamed when you said you had divined! I have been very miserable. I have not known what to do.” “So that was all,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing a long breath. “My young friend, I told you you should confide in me. I know sixty pounds a year is very little, and so you must remember is twice sixty pounds a year--” “Ah, but it is double,” said young Powys, with a tremulous smile. “But I have not worked for it,” he went on, clouding over--“I have not won it, I know I don’t deserve it; only, sir, if you have something special--any thing in this world, I don’t care how hard--that you mean to give me to do--” “Yes,” said Mr. Brownlow, “I have something very special; I can’t enter upon the details just now. The others in the office are very well; but I want some one I can depend upon, who will be devoted to me.” Upon this the young man smiled; smiled so that his face lighted up all over--every line in it answering as by an individual ray. “Devoted!” he said, “I should think so indeed--not to the last drop of blood, for that would do you no good--but to the last moment of work, whatever, however, you please--” “Take care,” said Mr. Brownlow, “you may be too grateful; when a man promises too much he is apt to break down.” “But I shall not break down,” said the Canadian. “You took me in first when I had nobody to speak for me, and now you save from what is worse than starving--from debt and hopeless struggles. And I was beginning to lose heart; I felt as if we could not live on it, and nobody knew but me. I beg your pardon sir, for speaking so much about myself--” “No, no; go on about yourself,” said Mr. Brownlow. He was leaning back on his chair like a man who had had a fit and was recovering from it. His whole countenance had relaxed in a manner wonderful to behold. He listened to the young fellow’s open-hearted babble as if it had been celestial music. It was music to his ears. It distilled upon him like the dew, as the Bible says, penetrating through and through, pervading his whole being with a sense of blessed ease, and relief and repose. He lay back in his chair and was content to listen. He did not care to move or think, but only to realize that the crisis had passed over; that for the moment all was still rest and security and peace. It was the best proof how much his nerves had been tried in the former part of the day.