“There is no likeness between your case and his. Uncle John is old, he has nothing particular given him to do; he is--well, he is Uncle John. But you, Roland, you are just my age.” “I’m good five years older, if not more.” “What does that matter? You are my own age, or, according to all rules of comparison between boys and girls, a little younger than me. You have got to settle upon something. I am not like many people,” said Rosalind, loftily; “I don’t say do this or do that; I only say, for Heaven’s sake do something, Roland; don’t be idle all your life.” “I should not mind so much if you did say do this or do that. Tell me something to do, Rosalind, and I’ll do it for your sake.” “Oh! that is all folly; that belongs to fairy tales--a shawl that will go through a ring, or a little dog that will go into a nutshell, or a golden apple. They are all allegories, I suppose; the right thing, however, is to do what is right for the sake of what is right, and not because any one in particular tells you.” “Shall I set up in chambers, and try to get briefs?” said Roland. “But then I have enough to live on, and half the poor beggars at the bar haven’t; and don’t you think it would be taking an unfair advantage, when I can afford to do without and they can’t, and when everybody knows there isn’t half enough business to keep all going? I ask you, Rosalind, do you think that would be fair?” Here the monitress paused, and did not make her usual eager reply. “I don’t know that it is right to consider that sort of thing, Roland. You see, it would be good for you to try for briefs, and then probably the other men who want them more might be--cleverer than you are.” “Oh, very well,” cried Roland, who had taken a chair close to his adviser, springing up with natural indignation; “if it is only by way of mortification, as a moral discipline, that you want me to go in for bar work.” She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. “Oh, no! it would only be fair competition. Perhaps you would be cleverer than they--than _some_ of them.” “That’s a very doubtful perhaps,” he cried, with a laugh. But he was mollified and sat down again--the touch was very conciliatory. “The truth is,” he said, getting hold of the hand, which she withdrew very calmly after a moment, “I am in no haste; and,” with timidity, “the truth is, Rosalind, that I shall never do work anyhow by myself. If I had some one with me to stir me up and keep me going, and if I knew it was for her interest as well as for my own--”