A gleam of hopeful sunshine seemed to have darted into the room that afternoon as Septimus sat busily writing, and the sharp click of needle upon thimble could be heard from the back-room, where Mrs Septimus was busy helping Lucy, so that the work might be finished in time, though every now and then it fell to someone's lot to amuse the little boy, who, a very spoiled tyrant, seemed bent upon being as capricious and unreasonable as children can be at times. But ever and again the wrinkles would deepen upon Septimus Hardon's forehead, and he would lay down his pen, in dread lest he should include some of his busy thoughts in his copying. What should he do to better his condition? Time back it had seemed so easy a task, that of keeping his wife and children; but, put to the proof, how difficult. Some that he saw were almost without trouble; wealth poured in upon them in return for their bright thoughts. And why should not he be rich when schemes in plenty came flashing to his brain? There were scores of fortunes to be made had he but capital--that golden key that should open the treasure-house; but he was poor--a beggar, as he told himself again and again, when, to drive away the thoughts, he stooped over his copying, but only to lay it aside once more and sigh. Old Matt came again that evening, vowing that he was much better, for he had been trying a favourite remedy of his--abstinence. "A first-rate thing, sir, for indigestion," said Matt; "rather lowering, certainly, but surprisingly efficacious as a medicine, while it costs nothing, and saves at the same time. A good walk helps, too, but then that requires what the shoe-shops call a pair of `stout walking,' and my old feet want an easy style of boot. I wouldn't use a new boot on any consideration," said Matt, stretching out a dilapidated and crushed Wellington, polished to the highest pitch of lustre by a scarlet-coated brigadier. "I study comfort, sir; ease before appearances."