him when he came in; received gratefully all that he had to tell her, and asked no questions. She struggled with all the might that was to prove at last too feeble a barrier to a devastating passion, against the daily thoughts of food eaten and clothes worn by one who was earning nothing; satisfied herself that though Henry was no longer enjoying the advantages of college, he was living more cheaply than he could do there; and trusted, on the whole, that this way of life might continue some time. One morning, Michael’s cup of tea having stood till it was cold, the discovery was made that Michael was not at home. Mr. Farrer dropped, with apparent carelessness, the news that he would not return for two or three days; and when Jane had helped herself to the cold tea, in order that it might not be wasted, nobody seemed to think more of the matter. Half an hour after breakfast, before Henry had closed a certain pocket volume in Greek which he had been observed to read in at all odd times, Mr. Farrer put his head in at the parlour-door, with “I say, Harry, we are very busy in the shop to-day, and Mike away.” “Indeed, sir! Shall I go out and find somebody to help you?” “Very pretty! And you sitting here with nothing to do! Come yourself; I will help you to find Mike’s apron.” Henry first laughed, and then, after an instant’s hesitation, pocketed his book, and followed his father. While he was somewhat awkwardly tying on his apron, his sister saw him through the tiny window which gave her, in her retirement a view of the shop; and she called out to know what he was doing. “I am going to try to cut bacon and weigh butter as well as Michael.” “Is it your own fancy?” “My father put it into my head; but it is my own will to do it till Michael comes back.” There was no more to be said; but Jane reddened all over; and when she saw the first customer come in, and Mr. Farrer stand over Henry to see him guess at the weight of soap required, Jane lost all power of casting up the column of figures over which her pen was suspended. It was told in many a neighbour’s house that day that there was a new shopman at Farrer’s, who was dead-slow at tying up parcels, and hacked sadly at the cheese, as if he did not know an ounce from a pound at sight. Henry was not aware how far he was from being worthy to rival Michael. It requires some practice to achieve the peculiar twirl and jerk with which an adroit shopman ties up and delivers a parcel to a fair dealer; and Henry knew nothing yet of the art of joking with the maidens and coaxing the matrons among his customers. When weary, sick, and inwardly troubled to a degree for which he could scarcely account, he came in from seeing that the shutters were properly closed, and from purifying himself from the defilements of the counter, his father hailed him with,