A call-boy entered with a handful of letters. The young man took them and ran them through his fingers. He arranged them in piles, reserving a part for himself. These he read, making notes and filing them rapidly. One letter, the one at the bottom of the pack, was not addressed to the great corporation, but--in a fine, small hand--to “John Bennett.” He read this one last, looking thoughtfully at the lines and folding it with slow fingers. The patient look was still in his face, but the light of the eyes was gone. It seemed to have sunk back, leaving the flesh dull and heavy. His employer glanced up suddenly. His quick eye sought the electric bulb, with a flash of impatience, and returned to its work. The young man rose and turned on more lights. He moved about the room, putting things away for the night. Simeon Tetlow finished his letters and pushed them from him. The young man came across and began to gather them up. His dull face came in range of his employer’s eye. “Give those I ’ve marked to Hanscom. Have the rest ready in the morning. I shall dictate.” “Yes, sir.” The young man finished gathering them up. The man glanced again, half-impatiently, at the heavy face. The room seemed suddenly gloomy, in spite of the red-hot wires looping the light about them. The young man brought a hat and coat and laid them beside his employer. “May I speak to you a minute, sir?” he asked as he put them down. The other glanced again, sharply, at his face. “Go ahead.” His hand was reaching for the hat. “I shall have to hand in my resignation, sir.” The young man said it slowly, as if repeating something he had learned by heart. The hand on the hat drew back. “What ’s that?” He laughed curtly and shot a look of suspicion at the impassive face. “More money?” The face flushed. “No, sir.” He hesitated a little. “My mother is sick.” “Umph!” The man’s face cleared. “You don’t need to resign for _that_.” He did not ask what was the matter with the mother. He had not known that John had a mother. She seemed to be springing into existence very inconveniently. “Get a nurse,” he said. “She has had a nurse. But she needs me, I think.” He did not offer more details. The older man shrugged his shoulders a little--a quick shrug. He pushed forward a chair with his foot. “Sit down. Your father dead?” quickly. “No, sir. But--father is--father.” He said it with a little smile. “She’s never had anybody but me,” he went on quickly. “She’s been sick ever since I was a little thing, and I’ve taken care of her. It frets her to have a woman around. She does n’t wash the dishes clean, and her cooking is n’t really very good.” He was smiling a little as he said it. The man shot a quick look at him. “You ’re going home to wash dishes?” “Yes, sir.” “Um-m.” The fingers played a little tune on the desk. “I ’ll raise you twenty-five a month. Get a better nurse.” The boy shook his head. “I ’m afraid it would n’t do.” He was hesitating. “I think she misses me.”