Leonard was greatly affected--and yet more, perhaps, by the utter want of feeling which the nephew exhibited. In fact, the deceased had not been on friendly terms with this person, his nearest relative and heir-at-law, who was also a bookseller. "You were engaged but by the week, I find, young man, on reference to my late uncle's papers. He gave you £1 a week--a monstrous sum! I shall not require your services any further. I shall move these books to my own house. You will be good enough to send me a list of those you bought at the sale, and your account of travelling expenses, &c. What may be due to you shall be sent to your address. Good evening." Leonard went home, shocked and saddened at the sudden death of his kind employer. He did not think much of himself that night; but, when he rose the next day, he suddenly felt that the world of London lay before him, without a friend, without a calling, without an occupation for bread. This time it was no fancied sorrow, no poetic dream disappointed. Before him, gaunt and palpable, stood Famine. Escape!--yes. Back to the village; his mother's cottage; the exile's garden; the radishes and the fount. Why could he not escape? Ask why civilization cannot escape its ills, and fly back to the wild and the wigwam. Leonard could not have returned to the cottage, even if the Famine that faced had already seized him with her skeleton hand. London releases not so readily her fatal step-sons. CHAPTER IV. One day three persons were standing before an old book-stall in a passage leading from Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road. Two were gentlemen; the third, of the class and appearance of those who more habitually halt at old book-stalls. "Look," said one of the gentlemen to the other, "I have discovered here what I have searched for in vain the last ten years--the Horace of 1580, the Horace of the Forty Commentators--a perfect treasury of learning, and marked only fourteen shillings!" "Hush, Norreys," said the other, "and observe what is yet more worth your study;" and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and as it were with a hungering attention over an old worm-eaten volume. "What is the book, my Lord?" whispered Mr. Norreys. His companion smiled, and replied by another question, "What is the man who reads the book?" Mr. Norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder. "Preston's translation of BOETHIUS, _The Consolations of Philosophy_," he said, coming back to his friend. "He looks as if he wanted all the consolations Philosophy can give him, poor boy."