“It is granted, sir,” I replied, warmly, “even before ‘tis known.” “Stop, stop,” he returned; “it is a request that is too frequently refused.” “Name it, sir.” “It is the loan of money I solicit. The period brief; the repayment certain.” I felt my face redden, and could not find words to answer. “Before I name the sum that I would borrow,” pursued Mr. Hartley, without appearing to notice my confusion, “and as the loan must be regulated by the state of your own finances, let me inquire what money you brought to town. Men coming to London are generally well provided.” What a question from a stranger! Surely I should resent it as impertinent. But no--the man appeared gifted with some influence that bent me to his will--and I muttered, that when I embarked for England my purse had contained two hundred pounds. “Faith, not a bad supply. Could you with convenience spare me half?” I groaned, and shook my head. . “Fifty, then?” Another and a more desponding shake. “Well, be it forty. No answer. Thirty--twenty--ten! No answer yet? Then is my request refused? So much for the lip-gratitude of Mr. Hector O’Halloran!” I thought my brain would madden, as the humiliating position to which my folly had reduced me, was thus rudely exposed by this tormenting supplicant. I tried to speak--‘twas useless; words would not come. Another minute passed--and Mr. Hartley’s eyes were turned on mine, as if he would have read the secret agony of spirit which his importunity had caused. “Well,” continued he, “should I solicit five paltry pounds--would that small assistance be refused?” The question was torturous. My voice at last found utterance. I raised my eyes, and looked full at Mr. Hartley. How well that look betrayed my secret sufferings--the bitterest a man can know--those of self-contempt and conscious humiliation! “Had I hundreds, Mr. Hartley, they should be placed freely at your disposal, and I should feel too proud in having the power of convincing you that I have not forgotten kindnesses. I want the means--for on yonder table lies all the money I am master of.” “What!” he exclaimed, “only a few shillings left of two hundred pounds?” “‘Tis true, by Heaven!” “Then, sir, are you lower than the wretch who asks for alms upon the road-side. You are a pauper by vice; he a beggar through misfortune. Listen, boy, and learn how deep is your degradation. A man to whom you were indebted for good services seeks your assistance, and whatever might have been your wishes to render it, folly has placed the means beyond your reach; and, to a noble spirit, how painful is the inability of returning a former obligation! And for what did you deprive yourself of the power of being generous? To lavish money upon knaves and gamblers--or, still more wretched infatuation,--to win the heartless smiles of beauty?”