During the first years, I knew nothing more of George’s history than I had gathered from Mr. Grindlay’s significant hint at our only interview. I concluded that in that hint the whole mystery was revealed. George’s father had been a drunkard, and his vice had probably ruined a decent family. The appearance of George’s only visitor, his sister, Esther, confirmed this view; she looked so respectable and so dejected! She never came but on Sunday, and then I was always glad if I could spare George to take a walk with her. After I had learnt his value, I gave him leave to invite her to dine, and to remain the evening with him, whenever he pleased. He told me she worked with a milliner in Pall Mall; and I observed that she always wore black, which I concluded she did from an economical motive. She seemed very shy; and I never troubled her with questions. George had been with us upward of five years, when we were visited by an old friend whose home was on the opposite side of the earth. He had returned to England, partly to see his relatives, and partly to transact some business respecting a small property he had lately inherited. During his sojourn he frequently dined with us; and, while at table, we did not fail to ply him with questions regarding his experiences in the colony he inhabited. “The great difficulty of _getting along_, as we call it,” he answered, one day, “lies in the impossibility of gathering people about us, upon whom we can rely. I have made money,” he said, “and have no right to complain; but I should have made twice as much if I had employed honest and intelligent men.” “You should take some abroad with you,” I replied. “I purpose to do something of the kind,” he answered; “and, by-the-by, if you should hear of any honest, intelligent young man, who can write good plain English in a legible hand, and who would not object to seek his fortune across the water, let me know.” George was in the room when this was said, and I involuntarily raised my eyes to his face. When I read its expression, a twinge of selfishness brought the color to my cheeks. “Now we shall lose him,” I said; and we did lose him. A few days afterward, Mr. Jameson, our colonial friend, told us that he was afraid his conversation had been the means of seducing our melancholy footman. He had found an extremely well-written letter on his table, signed “George Hammond,” expressing a wish to accompany him abroad, and dated from our house, which he had at first imagined was a jest of mine. “But I find it is from your servant,” he continued, “and I have told him that I can say nothing until I have consulted you on the subject.” “I am afraid I can allege nothing against it,” I answered, “if he suits you, and wishes to go. A more trustworthy, excellent person you never can meet with.”