The warehouse was in the Candleriggs, and a spruce clerk received the work from her, and paid her the joint wages of Rose and herself for the fortnight’s labour. It was thirty shillings--a very little sum, though they thought it good. On rare occasions the weekly produce of their united toil was as much as a pound, but this was a more usual amount. Filling her little basket with the renewed and increased supply of work given at her request, Martha turned to one of the dim streets of counting-houses which surround the Exchange. In the same line of buildings the Buchanans had their office, but Martha was not going there. She ascended another dusty stair at some little distance, and entering a smaller office, asked for Mr. Sommerville. Mr. Sommerville was a ruddy comfortable man, in an easy chair; once a poor Ayrshire lad, now, totally forgetful of that time, a cautious, shrewd, wealthy merchant, richer than many of the splendid commercial magnates who lightened the dim sky around him. But some claim of distant kindred or ancient acquaintance connected him with the family of the Muirs; though his look of doubt as Martha entered, and his laconic greeting, “Oh, Miss Muir,” when he recognised her, showed that this claim was of the slenderest kind. “I have come to speak to you about my brother,” said Martha, standing before him with a flush upon her face; “I mean I have taken the liberty, Mr. Sommerville--for Harry has lost his situation.” “What! the place I got for him in Buchanan’s?” exclaimed the merchant. “What has he done that for? some misconduct I suppose.” “No misconduct,” said Martha, with sudden courage; “nor have you the slightest ground for supposing so. Harry had money stolen from him on his way between the bank and the office--a thing which no one could foresee, and which has happened to many a wiser man. This is the cause; but this is not misconduct.” Mr. Sommerville waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, I understand; I see. Money stolen from him: _I_ never had money stolen from me. But I never will recommend a man again; they invariably turn out ill. How much was it?” “Fifty pounds.” said Martha, “for all of which he is responsible, and, if he were but in another situation, which we would not fail to pay.” “Oh yes, that’s all very well,” said the merchant, “but how is he to get the other situation? There must have been great carelessness, you know, or they never would have dismissed him. I heard he was wild; young Buchanan told me he was wild--but I did not expect it was to end so soon.” “And neither it shall,” said Martha, controlling, with absolute physical pain, the fierce hot anger of her mother-like love. “Mr. Buchanan has already taken from Harry a proportion of this sum. I pledge myself that the rest shall be paid.”