George went up to the fireplace. On the centre table, as he passed it, lay an official-looking parchment rolled up, an inkstand by its side. George had not the least doubt that the parchment was no other than that formidable document, his Indentures. Mr. Chattaway had taken up the same opinion. He extended his riding whip towards the parchment, and spoke in a significant tone, turning his eye on George. "Ready?" "It is no use attempting to say I am not," replied George. "I would rather you had forced me to become one of the lowest boys in your coal-mines, Mr. Chattaway." "What's this?" asked Mr. Chattaway. He was pointing now to the upper part of the sleeve of George's jacket. Some ravellings of cotton had collected there unnoticed. George took them off, and put them in the fire. "It is only a badge of my trade, Mr. Chattaway." Whether Mr. Chattaway detected the bitterness of the words--not the bitterness of sarcasm, but of despair--cannot be told. He laughed pleasantly, and before the laugh was over, Mr. Wall came in. Mr. Chattaway removed his hat now, and laid it with his riding-whip beside the indentures. "I am later than I ought to be," observed Mr. Chattaway, as they shook hands. "The fact is, I was on the point of starting, when my colliery manager came up. His business was important, and it kept me the best part of an hour." "Plenty of time; plenty of time," said Mr. Wall. "Take a seat." They sat down near the table. George, apparently unnoticed, remained standing on the hearth-rug. A few minutes were spent conversing on different subjects, and then Mr. Chattaway turned to the parchment. "These are the indentures, I presume?" "Yes." "I called on Mrs. Ryle last evening. She requested me to say that should her signature be required, as the boy's nearest relative and guardian--as his only parent, it may be said, in fact--she should be ready to affix it at any given time." "It will not be required," replied Mr. Wall, in a clear voice. "I shall not take George Ryle as an apprentice." A stolid look of surprise struggled to Mr. Chattaway's leaden face. At first, he scarcely seemed to take in the full meaning of the words. "Not take him?" he rejoined, staring helplessly. "No. It is a pity these were made out," continued Mr. Wall, taking up the indentures. "It has been so much time and parchment wasted. However, that is not of great consequence. I will be at the loss, as the refusal comes from my side." Mr. Chattaway found his tongue--found it volubly. "Won't he do? Is he not suitable? I--I don't understand this." "Not at all suitable, in my opinion," answered Mr. Wall. Mr. Chattaway turned sharply upon George, a strangely evil look in his dull grey eye, an ominous curl in his thin, dry lip. Mr. Wall likewise turned; but on his face there was a reassuring smile. And George? George stood there as one in a dream; his face changing to perplexity, his eyes strained, his fingers intertwined with the nervous grasp of emotion.