Mr. Usher groaned and threw the letter away from him. He felt a most ill-used man. The ingratitude of the world after a laborious lifetime spent in its service pained him exceedingly. The sight of Roderick's handwriting on the other envelope by no means brought him comfort. Roderick's letters were rare, but unpleasantly to the point. He unfolded it with distrustful resignation. But when his glance had taken in its contents, his expression changed. He took off his gold spectacles, breathed on them, and wiped them with his handkerchief, and putting them on again, beamed at his son's letter:-- _Revered Parent,--I'm going to marry Ella Defries. Can't get shekels without Lanyon's consent to union. A silly will gives him the hold. Am writing now for his blessing. Better let me overhaul the draft of your letter of paternal welcome to her, as I know your effusive little habits. Yours, Roderick._ “Ah, the flippant ways of youth,” said he, with an indulgent smile. The bucket-shop shark's application for cover came to him now through the rosy cloud of his content. What did a few hundreds matter when his only son was putting himself into a position to relieve from want his aged father's declining years? He almost caressed Mr. Vavasour's letter as he folded it up carefully and placed it with Roderick's in the breast-pocket of his old frock-coat. He felt kindly disposed towards all mankind, and prepared with a benevolent air to go forth and visit his friend, Matthew Lanyon. He cleared his table of the book plates, scrupulously putting each in its proper case, and then rang the bell. “My hat, Olivia. And my stick. No. The sun is warm. It is very hot. I shall take the green umbrella.” The elderly servant brought him these articles. He put on the Panama straw hat with his accustomed deliberation, while Olivia held the umbrella. Then he took the latter in his hand, and went out with his slow old man's tread. On his way through the wide straggling main street of Ayresford, he paused, according to long custom, to look into the window of a little poverty-stricken bric-à-brac shop, garnished with a few rusty old pistols, bits of china, and worm-eaten books. To-day was displayed a couple of leaves torn from an old postage-stamp album. The eye of the collector at once fixed itself on a Canada, green and unused. He hurried into the shop. “Good-morning, Mrs. Driscoll; it is a very hot day.” A dejected old woman rose from a stool by the counter. “The Lord sends it, Mr. Usher. We must abide by His mercies.” “We must indeed,” replied Usher, wagging his head. “I thought I would come in and help you, Mrs. Driscoll, by making a little purchase.” “You 're very kind, sir,” said the old woman, mournfully. “What might you be asking for these two sheets of postage stamps?” “Ten shillings, I was told, sir.” Usher lifted up his hands pityingly and smiled.