He was not very robust, and the cold damp winter tried him. There had been little severe frost, but a wet, dank fog had hung about, with drizzling rain or sleety snow. He had to turn out in all weathers, and had not time or energy for exercise of a more exhilarating character than the daily walk to the office. So that he drooped somewhat as the winter wore away, and felt little spring for anything beyond his daily round. However, the week’s work was now finished, and he was just contemplating closing the office when his uncle came quickly in, a look of vexation upon his face. He had some papers in his hand, and one of these he threw down upon the desk before the young man, saying in a vexed tone— “Look there, Oscar! What does this mean? Here is that bill come in a second time from Jones and Wright, and I gave you the money to pay it with in October. They are a small firm, and I never keep them waiting for payment. What does it mean?” Oscar looked at the bill, pondered a moment, for many bills went through his hands now, and his memory was not very strong for detail; then a flash of enlightenment seemed to come upon him, and he exclaimed— “Oh, I remember now. You gave me the money in cash. But, uncle, the bill was paid, and I have the receipt, and it’s all checked off in the books. I will show you.” Oscar got down the file and ledger, found the place in the latter, where the entry had been made, and produced the former bill duly receipted. Mr. Tom looked at it, and compared it with the paper on the desk. “A singular mistake for Jones and Wright to make,” he observed. “However, I will see them myself. It is close by, and I daresay they will not have closed already.” He went off, and Oscar, without thinking more of the matter, shut up the desks and such places as were under his care, gave out the letters for the post, and went home. He wished there had been something else to do than to go to the River Street house. Had Sheila only been there, he would have spent the Sunday at Cossart Place, for he was a favourite in that house, Effie having taken one of her rather capricious fancies to him. But it was no use thinking of that now; and he went home in the snow, glad to find himself under shelter, although there was nobody to give him a welcome. The Bensons were always “at home” on Saturday afternoons, and it was the fashion now for the Cossarts to be there pretty regularly. The two families had always been intimate, now they were almost like one. Raby’s marriage was being talked of for the coming summer. Her mind was already very full of the trousseau and wedding finery. Oscar established himself in the library and commenced his weekly journal letter to Sheila. He had posted one for the mail yesterday, but he had not been able to tell her of several small items of interest which had occurred during the past week. He was still writing when his uncle came in with a very grave look upon his face.