“Oh, McCormack, are you going to lunch? I wish you’d take these letters up to the post-office for me. John is out, and I’m anxious to get them off on the 12:40.” “With pleasure, Mr. Haldeman.” Hal reached his hand through the wicket, took the letters, and passed out into the street. So, then, he had lost his job. It was an occupation of which he had grown fond, and in which he had become skilful. His two years of bank training would now go for naught. For it was not to be supposed that after his dismissal from one bank he would easily find employment in another. He must seek work now that would be less to his taste. When he went home and told his mother about it she wept for an hour. She did not blame him. She had implicit faith in his honesty and judgment, and she never questioned his beliefs. But when his Aunt Sarah Halpert heard of it she was beside herself. She sent for Hal to come to her house at once. “Not but what you’ve got what you deserved to get,” she told him, “but it was all so absurdly unnecessary. I’ve no love for the elder Barriscale; you know that. And I’ve no doubt he took malicious delight in throwing you into the street; but he was dead right in declaring that the bank couldn’t afford to keep you. I’ve no sympathy for you; none whatever. Now go find a job somewhere and stick to it, and behave yourself. Hal,” she said, after she had stormed at him to her heart’s content, “if you need a little money, or a little help of any kind while you’re looking around, just come to your Aunt Sarah.” And when she kissed him good-night there were tears in her eyes, and there was fondness in her voice.