One more trial yet awaited him. Not long after his mother’s death, Mr. Allison took him aside and offered him a partnership in his lucrative business. “I am old,” said the merchant, “and want to be released from toil; Charles Walton is to be the principal in our firm, and we wish to secure your future services, as well as to reward a fidelity which has never once failed in twenty years of duty. Indeed, Mary insisted that her husband should accept no proposition which did not include you. I require no capital from you; the profits arising from your yearly deposit in my hands have swelled your little fund to some ten thousand dollars, which I am ready to pay over to you before commencing our new arrangement.” “You are kind—very kind, my dear sir,” was Ernest’s reply, while tears filled his eyes, and his emotions choked his utterance; “believe me, I am not ungrateful, and while life and health remain I shall ever be devoted to your service. But I cannot accept your noble offer—let me still be your clerk—your servant, if you will—I am no longer fitted for the responsibilities of a partner.” “My dear fellow, you are as healthy, active, and industrious as ever you were; you are in the very prime of life, and must not talk of want of fitness.” “The spring of life is gone,” said Ernest, mournfully, “I have no motive now for exertion.” “You are dispirited, Ernest—the loss of your mother has saddened and depressed you. Think over my proposition in a calm and dispassionate manner, and I am convinced you will not refuse it.” Ernest did think long and deeply on the subject, but his decision was unalterable. “It comes too late; my life is now an aimless one, and riches might only tend to make it a useless one also; there are none to share my fortunes, and why should a solitary and isolated man heap up riches when he knows not who shall gather them? it comes too late!” Alas! how often has that thought paralized the energies and stricken the heart of the patient sufferer. Even he, who in the flush of manhood can proudly exclaim, “_I bide my time_,” as if in defiance of fortune’s frowns, is often heard, when all was gained, to sigh mournfully in after life over the chilling reflection, “_it comes too late!_"—too late for the fulfilment of hope—too late for the attainment of happiness.