A year or two ago happiness seemed such an easy thing--so simple, so difficult to escape--that by contrast, Henry's present state of querulous unrest put it as far away as a fog removes the wonted position of a prominent landmark. He had an inclination to kick somebody--himself, deservedly. Could Flo be right about settling down in Laysford, where he was a potential "somebody"? Suppose he had an opportunity to go to London now, should he take it? If the man who wrote as Adrian Grant had unsettled his mind so far as his old simple faith in God's goodness and mercy was concerned, and Stratford and Wheelton and Laysford together had muddied his pictures of journalism, and even Flo had clouded his thoughts of happiness, what was worth while? Might London be all he had painted it? Was it to be "never glad, confident morning again"? Such was the muddle of Henry's mind when the two returned to Mrs. Arkwright's from their afternoon stroll, and each went to his own rooms. Henry threw himself into an arm-chair and gave himself up to brooding thoughts--dark, distracting. He was not long alone, for his fellow-lodger came to his door in the space of five minutes, with a letter open in his hand and a smiling face, which betokened good news. "How's this for a piece of fortune?" he exclaimed, stepping briskly towards Henry, and handing him the letter. "Read. It has just come with the afternoon post." What Henry read was a brief note from Mr. Swainton of the _Lyceum_, saying, that, curiously enough, the very week he had received Mr. P.'s letter asking him if he knew of any suitable post for his friend, Mr. Charles, the editor of the _Watchman_ had mentioned that he was on the lookout for a smart young journalist as assistant editor of that weekly review. He had spoken to him of Mr. Charles, and he now wrote to say that if the latter would run up to town and see Mr. Godfrey Pilkington, the gentleman in question, he might "pull off" the job. It would be worth L350 a year, he fancied. Good news, indeed. At the magic touch of "London" Henry's doubts were dissipated. They had existed only while the prospect still seemed to be uncertain. He would have preferred an editorship; but an assistant in London was (he imagined) as good as any editor in the provinces. "You know the _Watchman_, I suppose?" said Mr. P., who had closely observed the young editor's delighted expression while reading the letter. "Know it? I should think I do," he answered, with his old buoyancy of spirit. "A perfect production, the best of all the sixpenny weeklies, although it is the youngest. How can I thank you?" "Not so fast; you've still 'to pull it off,' as Swainton says. All that I have done has been to open the door for you." "But isn't that everything?" "Almost, but not quite. If Henry Charles is found 'as advertised,' all will be well. Something, you see, depends on yourself."