"Something that I have been trying for some time without failing so badly as at the other things." "Literature!" cried Mrs. Ringrose. "Literature, forsooth!" echoed the clergyman, before Harry had time to repudiate the word. "I suppose, Mary, that you are alluding to the productions you have shown me in the paper with the unspeakable name? Well, Henry, if that's your literature, let's say no more about it; only I am almost sorry you did not fail there, too. You cannot, however, devote all or even much of your time to such buffoonery, and it was to speak to you about some permanent occupation that I accompanied your mother this afternoon. What should you say to the Civil Service?" "I couldn't possibly get into it, uncle." "Into the higher branches you certainly could not, Henry. But a second-class clerkship in one of the lower branches I think you might obtain, with ordinary application and perseverance. I am only sorry it did not occur to me before." "What are the lower branches?" asked Harry, doubtfully. "The Excise and the Customs are two." "And the salary?" "From eighty-five to two hundred pounds in the Excise, which is the service I recommend. I have been making inquiries about it this morning. A parishioner of mine is sending his son in for it. The lad is to attend classes at Exeter Hall, under the auspices of the Young Men's Christian Association, and I understand that mensuration is the only really difficult subject. What I propose to do, Henry, is to present you to-morrow with a ticket for the course of these classes which commences next week." "You are very kind, Uncle Spencer----" Mr. Walthew waved his hand as though not totally unaware of it. "But----" "But what?" cried Uncle Spencer. "I believe before very, very long I should make as much money with my pen." "You decline my offer?" "I am exceedingly grateful for it." "Yet you elect to go on writing rubbish for an extremely vulgar paper for the rest of your days." "Not for the rest of my days, I hope, Uncle Spencer. I mean it to be a stepping-stone to better things." "So you think you can earn eighty-five pounds a year by your pen!" sneered the clergyman, buttoning up his overcoat. "I mean to try," said Harry, provoked into a firmer tone. "Is this your deliberate decision?" "It is." "Then I am sorry I wasted my time by coming so far to hold out a helping hand to you. It is the last time, Henry. You may go your own way after this. Only, when your pen brings you to the poorhouse, don't come to me--that's all!" Harry contrived to keep his temper without effort. Pinpricks do not hurt a man with a mortal wound. As for Mrs. Ringrose, she had fled before the proposal which she knew was coming, and of the result of which she felt equally sure. But she came to her door to bid the offended clergyman good-bye, and at last her boy and she were alone. He flung his arms round her neck.