“Dear Paul,--I am rejoiced to say there is a good chance of a situation for you with handsome pay and most agreeable duty. You are to come down here at once, and see your uncle, but on no account let it be known that I have mentioned to you the prospect of employment. “Your affectionate aunt, “Jane Morse.” I took the morning train, and arrived at Rochester by nine o'clock, remembering, not without pain, my last experiences of my uncle's hospitality. I breakfasted at the inn, and only arrived at the house when he had finished his morning meal, and was smoking his pipe in the garden. “What wind blows you down here, lad?” cried he. “Where are you bound for now?” “You forget, my dear,” said my aunt, “you told me, the other evening, you would be glad to see Paul.” “Humph!” said he, with a grunt. “I 've been a-think-ing over it since, and I suspect it would n't do. He 'd be making a mess of it, the way he does of everything; that blessed luck of his never leaves him, eh?” Seeing that this was meant as an interrogation, I replied faintly: “You 're quite right, uncle. If I am to depend on my good fortune, it will be a bad look-out for me.” “Not that I value what is called luck a rush,” cried he, with energy. “I have had luck, but I had energy, industry, thrift, and perseverance. If I had waited for luck, I 'd have lived pretty much like yourself, and I don't know anything to be very proud of in that, eh?” “I am certainly not proud of my position, sir.” “I don't understand what you mean by your position; but I know I 'd have been a coal-heaver rather than live on my relations. I 'd have sold sulphur matches, I 'd have been a porter!” “Well, sir, I suppose I may come to something of that kind yet; a little more of the courteous language I am now listening to will make the step less difficult.” “Eh?--What! I don't comprehend. Do you mean anything offensive?” “No, dear, he does not,” broke in my aunt; “he only says he 'd do anything rather than be a burden to his family, and I 'm sure he would; he seems very sorry about all the trouble he has cost them.” My uncle smoked on for several minutes without a word; at last he came to the end of his pipe, and, having emptied the ashes, and gazed ruefully at the bowl, he said: “There 's no more in the fellow than in that pipe! Not a bit. I say,” cried he, aloud, and turning to me, “you've had to my own knowledge as good as a dozen chances, and you've never succeeded in one of them.” “It's all true,” said I, sorrowfully. “Owing to luck, of course,” said he, scornfully; “luck makes a man lazy, keeps him in bed when he ought to be up and at work; luck makes him idle, and gets him plucked for his examinations. I tell you this, sir: I 'd rather a man would give me a fillip on the nose than talk to me about luck. If there's a word in the language I detest and hate, it is luck.” “I'm not in love with it myself, sir,” said I, trying to smile.