"Oh! it's none of my work," he said, seeing Murdoch glance about him. "I wasn't fool enough to try to do it myself. I gave it into the hands of them as knew how." He was loud-tongued and boastful; but he showed good-nature enough and a rough wit, and it was also plain that he knew his own strength and weaknesses. "Thirty year' your father was at work on that notion of his?" he said once during the evening. Murdoch made an uneasy gesture of assent. "And it never came to aught?" "No." "He died." "Yes." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and gave the young fellow a keen look. "Why don't you take the thing up yourself?" he said. "There may be something in it, after all, and you're a long-headed chap." Murdoch started from his chair. He took an excited turn across the room before he knew what he was doing. "I never will," he said, "so help me God! The thing's done with and shut out of the world." When he went away, Haworth accompanied him to the door. At the threshold he turned about. "How do you like the look of things?" he demanded. "I should be hard to please if I did not like the look of them," was the answer. "Well, then, come again. You're welcome. I have it all to myself. I'm not favorite enow with the gentry to bring any on 'em here. You're free to come when th' fit takes you." CHAPTER VI. MISS FFRENCH. It was considered, after this, a circumstance illustrative of Haworth's peculiarities that he had taken to himself a _protege_ from among the "hands;" that said _protege_ was an eccentric young fellow who was sometimes spoken of as being scarcely as bright as he should be; that he occasionally dined or supped with Haworth; that he spent numberless evenings with him, and that he read his books, which would not have been much used otherwise. Murdoch lived his regular, unemotional life, in happy ignorance of these rumors. It was true that he gradually fell into the habit of going to Haworth's house, and also of reading his books. Indeed, if the truth were told, these had been his attraction. "I've no use for 'em," said Haworth, candidly, on showing him his library. "Get into 'em, if you've a fancy for 'em." His fancy for them was strong enough to bring him to the place again and again. He found books he had wanted, but never hoped to possess. The library, it may be admitted, was not of Jem Haworth's selection, and, indeed, this gentleman's fancy for his new acquaintance was not a little increased by a shrewd admiration for an intellectual aptness which might be turned to practical account. "You tackle 'em as if you were used to 'em," he used to say. "I'd give something solid myself if I could do the same. There's what's against me many a time--knowing naught of books, and having to fight my way rough and ready."