One evening—it was a Saturday, on which day Mr. Erin was accustomed to entertain a few friends of his own way of thinking—William Henry made his appearance later than usual. The guests had already sat down to table, and were in full tide of talk, which was not in any way interrupted by his arrival. Margaret as usual cast a swift furtive glance at him, and at once perceived that something had happened. His face was pale, even paler than usual, but his eyes were very bright and restless; a peculiar smile played about his mouth. ‘He has found something’ was the thought that flashed at once across her mind. Even if he had, she felt it would not really alter matters, and would only tend to nourish false hopes. Her uncle’s heart would never soften towards him in the way that he hoped for. A compelled expression of approbation, an unwilling tribute to his diligence and judgment, born of self-congratulation on the acquisition of some literary treasure, would be his reward at best, but still—but still—her heart went pit-a-pat. She knew that no good fortune of the ordinary kind could have happened to him. Mr. Bingley, though he liked the boy, could hardly have promised to make him his partner; nor indeed, if he had, would it have mattered much, since his business was so small as to require but a single clerk. That he had found a publisher for his poems was not less unlikely, while the result of such a miracle would be of even less material advantage. Throughout the meal William Henry scarcely touched bit or sup; his air, to the one observer of it, gave the impression of intense but suppressed excitement.