Henry turned his head as he concluded, and looked up at William. A gleam like a sunbeam had flashed into William's eyes; a colour to his cheeks. "Well?" cried Henry sharply, for William did not speak. "Have you nothing to say?" "It was generous of Miss Ashley." "I don't mean that. Oh dear!" sighed Henry, who appeared to be in one of his fitful moods; "who is to know whether things will turn out crooked or straight in this world of ours? What objection have you to coming home with me for the evening? That's what I mean." "None. I can give up my books for a night, bookworm as you think me. But they will expect me at East's." "Happy the man that expecteth nothing!" responded Henry. "Disappoint them." "As for disappointing them, I shouldn't so much mind, but I can't abide to disappoint myself," returned William, quoting from Goldsmith's good old play, of which both he and Henry were fond. "You don't mean to say it would be a disappointment to _you_, not giving the lesson, or whatever it is, to those working chaps!" uttered Henry Ashley. "Not as you would count disappointment. When I do not get round for an hour, it seems as a night lost. I know the men like to see me; and I am always fearing that we are not sure of them." "You speak as though your whole soul were in the business," returned Henry Ashley. "I think my heart is in it." Henry looked at him wistfully, and his tone grew serious. "William, I would give all I am worth, present, and to come, to change places with you." "To change places with me!" echoed William, in surprise. "Yes: for you have an object in life. You may have many. To be useful in your generation is one of them." "And so may you have objects in life." "With this encumbrance!" He stamped his lame leg, and a look of keen vexation settled itself in his face. "You can go forth into the world with your strong limbs, your unbroken health; you can work, or you can play; you can be active, or you can be still, at will. But what am I? A poor, weak creature; infirm of temper, tortured by pain, condemned half my days to the monotony of a sick-room. Compare my lot with yours!" "There are those who would choose your lot in preference to mine, were the option given them," returned William. "I must work. It is a duty laid upon me. You can play." "Thank you! How?" "I am not speaking literally. Every good and pleasing thing that money can purchase is at your command. You have only to enjoy them, so far as you may. One, suffering as you do, bears not upon him the responsibility to _use_ his time, that a healthy man does. Lots, in this world, Henry, are, as I believe, pretty equally balanced. Many would envy you your life of calm repose." "It is not calm," was the abrupt rejoinder. "It is disturbed by pain, and aggravated by temper; and--and--tormented by uncertainty." "At any rate, you can subdue the one." "Which, pray?"