Rees told him the whole story faithfully, not withholding the record of his own shame and astonishment, and the mortifying derision with which the earl had received his proposals. He had expected sympathy, he had expected a kindly palliation of his own fault. But he was not prepared for the torrent of outraged amazement with which Goodhare heard the account of Lord St. Austell’s behavior. The librarian walked to and fro on the hearth-rug, which was the longest promenade his tiny sitting-room afforded. “To think that he, of all men, after the admiration he always expressed for you, the hints which he has frequently given about the handsome manner in which he intended to provide for you”--here Rees looked up in surprise,--“that he should treat you in this manner, as if you were his inferior! I cannot understand it! I always imagined him to be a man of right feeling and noble instincts, incapable of outraging the feelings of a man poorer than himself.” “Well,” said Rees, who, now that his own cause was espoused so hotly, could afford to be magnanimous, “money makes the one great difference now, you know, as Lord St. Austell has said himself a dozen times.” Amos stopped suddenly in the centre of the hearth-rug. “If you could only, some day, get rich, make a fortune, and come back and see him anxious for you to renew your proposal! What a revenge that would be for you!” The young man looked at him dubiously. Even to the excitable brain of twenty-three, that seemed a fantastic and melodramatic idea. “Yes,” he answered, rather drily, “but fortunes are not picked up in the roads.” “Not often,” assented Amos, watching him. “Yet still I have heard of money being picked up in strange ways.” “It isn’t likely to come much in my way, though, unless indeed I eat humble pie, and beg his lordship to give me the--the place, I suppose you call it, which I refused to-day so contemptuously.” “And are you really ready to do that?” asked Amos, in a tone so full of scorn that the weak and sensitive lad writhed under it. “As ready as I am to starve, perhaps,” answered he, reddening. “But why do either?” asked the librarian, in a low, soft tone of gentle persuasion. “Providence does sometimes favor the deserving, and though I am not superstitious, I am inclined to think that, having preserved you from a life of unworthy drudgery, such as your own family seem to have been quite willing for you to adopt, Providence has some better destiny in store for you than you fancy.” “Providence had better make haste about it then, or she may find that she has missed her chance.” “Shall we take a walk together?” asked Amos, who began to see in the lad’s eyes the look of desperation he had been hoping for. “The fresh air sometimes cools the brain, and gives one fresher and brighter thoughts. It is my sovereign remedy for all the ills of my dull life. Come.”