“I think I can get him exactly the sort of thing you want,” answered Laurence Desmond; “but I must first make sure he is fit for it. Bring him at half-past seven to-morrow, and let me see if he is worthy of your praises. You’ll take those books, and send me copy to-morrow, eh?” Daniel nodded, took the books under his arm, shook hands with his friend, and departed--departed, with peace and goodwill and all Christian feelings in his big, generous heart, to annihilate the luckless wretch who had written a stupid novel. Daniel and Eustace dined in the Temple the next evening, and sat late over their wine in the summer twilight. Laurence Desmond was delighted with the young man. He led him on to talk freely on his own sentiments and opinions, while Daniel listened with a fond smile to his nephew’s eloquent discourse. It was pleasant to Mr. Desmond, whose lot had been cast in that serene and exalted sphere in which there was no such thing as emotion--it was very pleasant to the popular editor to come in contact with this fresh, young nature, and to discover that, even in this age of high-pressure, a man may retain youthfulness of spirit, faith in his fellow-creatures, pure and poetic aspirations, and childlike simplicity of feeling, after his twenty-third birthday. “The young men I know have been used up at nineteen,” thought Laurence; “and there are hardened wretches of five-and-twenty more _blasé_ than Philip of Orleans at forty-eight.” From talking of his opinions, Laurence Desmond led Eustace on to talk of himself and his own experiences; and before Daniel and his nephew departed, the young man’s future was in some measure provided for. “A very old and dear friend of mine,” said Mr. Desmond, “has for some time been in want of a secretary and amanuensis to assist him in the completion and publication of a great work to which he has devoted many years of his life--a work which he calls the _History of Superstition_, and which, I believe, is as dear to him as his only child. I have been trying to find him the kind of person he wants, but have hitherto failed most completely. There are plenty of shallow, flippant young fellows who would like the position well enough, for the salary will be a decent one, and my friend is the best and kindest of men; but, until now, I have met no one capable of giving him the assistance he wants. Your knowledge of languages and your Villebrumeuse reading--which seems to have been very wisely chosen,--exactly fit you for the position. If you can tolerate a quiet life in the heart of the country, I can offer you the situation, Mr. Thorburn, and may conclude all arrangements with you, on my own responsibility.” “If your friend is a gentleman, I say ‘Done!’” cried Daniel Mayfield, heartily; “nothing could be better suited to this boy.” He laid his hand caressingly on the young man’s shoulder as he spoke.