They spoke of Felix's prospects. He had found by this time that the world he had come into London to conquer was not so easy to open as the time-honoured oyster. He had smiled often to himself since his boast to Martha, and had said, "What arrogance!" But he was mistaken. It was not arrogance. When he said to Martha Day that the world was before him for him to open, and, asking where his oyster-knife was, had tapped his forehead and said it was there, he had spoken, not out of arrogance, but out of the over-confidence of youth. He had not long been in London before he discovered his mistake. He became humbled in the contemplation of the greatness of his oyster and the littleness of himself, and he set modestly, humbly to work upon the very lowest rung of the ladder, not daring to hope to rise very high. There came to him this feeling, of which he never lost sight: "I shall be content," he said to himself, "if I can become one of the common workers in the world, and if I can find some channel in which, by the exercise of all my energy, of all the talent which I may possess, I am able to earn my living." He did not desire much; it was no boast when he said to himself that he would be content with very little; his wants were small, and he had within him the capacity to enjoy. He took his enjoyments modestly; went now and again to the pit of the theatre, and (out of his gratefulness for small blessings) obtained more than his money's worth. When he could not afford the pit he went to the gallery, and would not have been ashamed to be seen there by any of his former friends. At one time his funds were very low, so low, indeed, that he could not afford a dinner; so, apples being in, he lived upon bread-and-apples and cold water, and made merry over his fare. He told no one, and he was not in the least to be pitied; he was learning life's lessons, and was bearing reverses bravely, without repining and without self-exaltation. He tried the usual resources of helplessness; he could draw and paint indifferently well, and one day (just before his bread-and-apple fare commenced) he almost ruined himself by laying-in a stock of cardboard and crayons. In a few days he had two sketches ready, of which he thought so highly that he said, as he surveyed them, "Upon my word, I don't think I'll part with them." But he laughed at his vanity the next moment, and out he went to sell them, and came back with them under his arm. No one would buy them. He tried again the next day, and the next, and the best result that he could obtain was that a shopkeeper offered to put them in his window, and to divide the proceeds with him, supposing they were sold. Felix agreed readily enough, put a low price upon them, and went round every day to look at them in the window. He did not dare to enter the shop. "The shopkeeper might ask me for storage expenses," he said with a laugh. Then came the bread-and-apple time; and one day, longing for