Hamish sat in his writing-room as usual this evening, working closely. His face wore a weary look as the light from the candle, the shade temporarily removed, fell upon it. Ever good-humoured, ever full of sweet hope, of loving-kindness to the whole world, he cared not for his weariness; nay, was not conscious of it. An arrival at the street door, and a bustle in the next room following closely upon it; a child's joyous laughter and light chatter. Hamish knew the cause. Little Miss Nelly had returned home from a child's party, her hands laden with fairy gifts. In she came; papa could not keep the door quite closed from her; in her white muslin frock with the broad blue sash and sleeve ribbons, and the bit of narrow blue on her neck, suspending the locket with Grandpapa Channing's likeness in it. Hamish caught up the lovely little vision and began fondling it; kissing the bright cheeks, the chattering lips, the pretty neck. "And now Nelly must go," he said, "for I have my work to do." "A great deal of work?" "Oceans of it, Nelly." "Mamma says, you work too much," returned Nelly, looking full at him with her brilliant, sweet blue eyes, so like his own. "Tell mamma I say she knows nothing about it." "Jane Greatorex was there, papa, and Aunt Annabel. She told me to tell you, too, not to work so much." "Jane Greatorex did?" "Now, papa, you know! Annabel." "We'll have mamma and Annabel taken up for conspiracy. Good night, my little treasure: I'd keep you here always if I could." "Let me say my prayers to you tonight, papa," whispered the child. He was about to say no, but seemed to change his mind, and quitted the chair at the writing-table for another. Then Nelly, throwing all her gifts on the table in a heap, knelt down and put up her hands to say her prayers. When she had concluded them, he did not let her rise, but laid his hand upon her head and kept it there in silence, as if praying himself. And Nelly went out with some awe, for papa's eyes looked as if they had tears in them. Hamish had settled to work again, and Nelly would be a myth until the next morning, when Gerald Yorke arrived, dashing up in a hansom. He came in to Hamish at once, carrying his manuscript. "You'll do me a favour, won't you, old friend?" "What is it?" asked Hamish, the sunny smile on his face already an earnest of compliance. And Gerald undid his manuscript. "I want you to read this; to go over it carefully and attentively; and then give me your opinion of it. I thought once of asking Caustic, but your judgment is worth more than his, because I know you'll give a true report." Gerald had either been in too great haste to make a fair copy for the press, or else had deemed that point superfluous. As Hamish caught sight of the blurred and blotted lines in Gerald's notably illegible hand, he hesitated. He was so _full_ of work, and this would be indeed a task. Only for the tenth part of a moment, however; he could sit up at night and get through it.