“And now to business,” said Daniel. “You once offered to get me a government appointment, and I told you I wasn’t fit for one. I haven’t forgotten your offer, or the kindness that prompted it. My sister has left a son--a lad of three-and-twenty. He is clever, honourable, ambitious, and indefatigable; but, except myself, he has neither friend nor relative in the world. He has been a tutor in a great Belgian academy, and the principal will certify his merits. If you can serve him, Desmond, you will do me treble service.” “What kind of thing do you want for him?” “A private tutorship, or the post of secretary to a man worth serving. The lad is a fair classical scholar, and a good linguist. He is a great deal more than this into the bargain; but I am so fond of the fellow that I am afraid of praising him too much.” “Bring him here to dine to-morrow night,” said Mr. Desmond; “I’ll think the matter over in the meantime. I dare say I shall hit upon something to suit him. Why doesn’t he take to this sort of thing?” The editor of the _Areopagus_ laid his hand upon the proofs. Daniel Mayfield shook his head sadly. “Anything but that, Desmond. I don’t want him to be a publisher’s hack. I don’t want him to put my worn-out old shoes on his brave young feet, and tread the miry road along which I have travelled. I don’t want him to make merchandise of his best and purest feelings while the stock lasts him, and deal in sham sentiments and spurious emotions when the real ones are worn out. I don’t want him to weep maudlin tears over philanthropic leaders, or work himself into an unreal fury over the denunciation of a political measure he has barely had leisure to consider. I don’t want him to sell his convictions to the highest bidder--to be Conservative one day, Liberal the next, and Radical the day after. He’s too good for my work, Desmond, and he’s too good for my company. When he was old enough to be injured by a bad example, his poor mother took him away from me--though I was sorry enough to part with the little rascal, and it went to her heart to give me sorrow. She is gone now, Desmond, and it is my duty to see that the boy comes to no harm.” “Has he any of your talent, Dan?” “He has something better than my talent, sir,” answered Mayfield, gravely. “The lad has the soul of a poet, and is destined to be one. There is real genius there, sir--not the marketable trash I deal in. He has written verses which have brought the tears into my eyes; consider that, sir--tears from such a hardened wretch as your Daniel should count for something. I want some quiet, comfortable position for him, in which he will have a little leisure to think his own thoughts. I want him to bide his time; and some day, when his intellect has ripened and mellowed, the divine breath will inflate his nostrils, and we shall have a new poet.”