Harry has spent more than an hour with me this evening. I never saw a poor lad so overwhelmed with grief. He, the rosy-cheeked fellow! who would have you believe—in his verses—that his tears were his meat day and night, is now positively ashamed of crying bitterly over an irreparable loss. I honour him for so deeply lamenting a good father; it raises him in the scale of human being—as genuine, well-placed affection always does. He will now have to exchange imaginary woes for stern realities. He came quite at dusk. I did not think, at first, it was his voice, asking if he might come in, it was so subdued. I said, “Ah, Harry!” and held out my hand. He grasped it in his, and then sat down and sobbed. I waited a little while in silence; then, when his emotion had somewhat spent itself, I said— “I thank you very much for coming—it is very kind of you, for I was longing to hear many things that no one else could so well tell.” “Oh!” said he, drying his eyes, “the kindness is to myself—I could not stand it at home any longer!” “How does your dear mother bear up?” “Wonderfully!”—crying again. “But she quite broke down this evening: so my sisters persuaded her to go to bed; and as they are sitting with her, I was quite alone, and thought I would steal out to you for a little while. What a shocking thing it is!” I knew to what he referred, and said, “It is indeed, my dear Harry. For your comfort, you must reflect that our heavenly Father is _peculiarly_ the God of the widow and orphan. He makes them his _special_ charge.” “I can’t think what we shall do!” “Do your best, my dear boy, and you will be sure to do well.” “Uncle John will come to the funeral. And Uncle John will very likely provide for James, and take him into his business, which is that of a wholesale druggist; but what is to become of _me_, I can’t think!” “Should you be glad if your uncle took you instead of James?” “Why no, not glad; because it is not a line of business that suits my taste. You know, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said the poor boy, faltering, “I always aspired to be something of a gentleman.” “And is not your uncle one?” “Hardly. But I would be anything just now, to be of service to mamma—my _mother_!” “That’s right. Perhaps you would like to be in a surveyor’s office.” “That would be better—only, who is to place me in one?” “Or should you like to be a medical man, like your father?” “Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove, his was a hard life! And those hospitals! But have you heard of Mr. Pevensey’s kindness?” cried he, suddenly brightening. “No!—in what?” “Directly he heard of what had happened, he sent my mother a note, to say how sorry he was; and that as he was sure she would be glad to part with the horse that had occasioned such a terrible calamity, and he heard my father valued it at a hundred guineas, he inclosed a cheque for that amount, and would take it off her hands.”