The treasure of Jane’s heart appeared to me to be what respectable people call a very deserving young man. “William, ma’am,” said Jane, one day suddenly, with ill-concealed complacency, as she counted out the beer bottles, “William, ma’am, is a teetotaller. Yes, m’m; and he don’t smoke. Smoking, ma’am,” said Jane, as one who reads the heart, “_do_ make such a dust about. Beside the waste of money. _And_ the smell. However, I suppose it’s necessary to some.” Possibly it dawned on Jane that she was reflecting a little severely upon Euphemia’s comparative ill-fortune; and she added kindly, “I’m sure the master is a hangel when his pipe’s alight. Compared to other times.” William was at first a rather shabby young man of the ready-made black-coat school of costume. He had watery grey eyes, and a complexion appropriate to the brother of one in a Home for the Dying. Euphemia did not fancy him very much, even at the beginning. His eminent respectability was vouched for by an alpaca umbrella, from which he never allowed himself to be parted. “He goes to chapel,” said Jane. “His papa, ma’am—” “His _what_, Jane?” “His papa, ma’am, was Church; but Mr. Maynard is a Plymouth Brother, and William thinks it Policy, ma’am, to go there too. Mr. Maynard comes and talks to him quite friendly, when they ain’t busy, about using up all the ends of string, and about his soul He takes a lot of notice, do Mr. Maynard, of William, and the way he saves string and his soul, ma’am.” Presently we heard that the head porter at Maynard’s had left, and that William was head porter at twenty-three shillings a week. “He is really kind of over the man who drives the van,” said Jane, “and him married with three children.” And she promised in the pride of her heart to make interest for us with William to favour us so that we might get our parcels of drapery from Maynard’s with exceptional promptitude. After this promotion a rapidly increasing prosperity came upon Jane’s young man. One day, we learned that Mr. Maynard had given William a book. “Smiles’ ’Elp Yourself, it’s called,” said Jane; “but it ain’t comic. It tells you how to get on in the world, and some what William read to me was _lovely_, ma’am.” Euphemia told me of this laughing, and then she became suddenly grave. “Do you know, dear,” she said, “Jane said one thing I did not like. She had been quiet for a minute, and then she suddenly remarked, ‘William is a lot above me, ma’am, ain’t he?’” “I don’t see anything in that,” I said, though later my eyes were to be opened. One Sunday afternoon about that time I was sitting at my writing-desk—possibly I was reading a good book—when a something went by the window. I heard a startled exclamation behind me, and saw Euphemia with her hands clasped together and her eyes dilated. “George,” she said in an awe-stricken whisper, “did you see?” Then we both spoke to one another at the same moment, slowly and solemnly: “_A silk hat! Yellow gloves! A new umbrella!_”