Mr. Roger Morton was seated--for the last four years, ever since his second mayoralty, he had arrogated to himself the dignity of a chair. He received rather than served his customers. The latter task was left to two of his sons. For Tom, after much cogitation, the profession of an apothecary had been selected. Mrs. Morton observed, that it was a genteel business, and Tom had always been a likely lad. And Mr. Roger considered that it would be a great comfort and a great saving to have his medical adviser in his own son. The other two sons and the various attendants of the shop were plying the profitable trade, as customer after customer, with umbrellas and in pattens, dropped into the tempting shelter--when a man, meanly dressed, and who was somewhat past middle age, with a careworn, hungry face, entered timidly. He waited in patience by the crowded counter, elbowed by sharp-boned and eager spinsters--and how sharp the elbows of spinsters are, no man can tell who has not forced his unwelcome way through the agitated groups in a linendraper’s shop!--the man, I say, waited patiently and sadly, till the smallest of the shopboys turned from a lady, who, after much sorting and shading, had finally decided on two yards of lilac-coloured penny riband, and asked, in an insinuating professional tone,-- “What shall I show you, sir?” “I wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he?” “Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what you want.” “No--it is a matter of business--important business.” The boy eyed the napless and dripping hat, the gloveless hands, and the rusty neckcloth of the speaker; and said, as he passed his fingers through a profusion of light curls “Mr. Morton don’t attend much to business himself now; but that’s he. Any cravats, sir?” The man made no answer, but moved where, near the window, and chatting with the banker of the town (as the banker tried on a pair of beaver gloves), sat still--after due apology for sitting--Mr. Roger Morton. The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced grimly at the lean apparition that shaded the spruce banker, and said,-- “Do you want me, friend?” “Yes, sir, if you please;” and the man took off his shabby hat, and bowed low. “Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope?” “No, sir! Your nephews--” The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the newcomer. The linendraper started back. “Nephews!” he repeated, with a bewildered look. “What does the man mean? Wait a bit.” “Oh, I’ve done!” said the banker, smiling. “I am glad to find we agree so well upon this question: I knew we should. Our member will never suit us if he goes on in this way. Trade must take care of itself. Good day to You!” “Nephews!” repeated Mr. Morton, rising, and beckoning to the man to follow him into the back parlour, where Mrs. Morton sat casting up the washing bills. “Now,” said the husband, closing the door, “what do you mean, my good fellow?”