"made a man of him at last."

Poor little man. I shall never forget his joy when he got that important letter. He sprang from his desk, upsetting the high stool in his haste, and shook hands with us all round, laughing and crying alternately.

He was a great favourite in the office, and we all rejoiced in his good fortune, though I felt sincerely grieved at parting with him. He had been a kind friend to me when I had no friends; and I had spent some quiet, happy evenings with him at his humble lodgings, in the company of a very pretty and amiable wife. My occasional visit to him was the only indulgence I had ever been allowed, and these visits were not permitted to be of too frequent recurrence.

He saw how much I was affected at bidding him good-by.

"Geoffrey," said he, taking me by the hand and drawing me aside: "one word with you before we part. I know your attachment for me is sincere. Believe me, the feeling is reciprocated in its fullest extent. Your uncle is not your friend. Few men act wickedly without a motive. He has his own reasons for treating you as he does. I cannot enter into particulars here. Nor would I, even if time and opportunity warranted, for it would do no good. Keep your eyes open, your head clear—your temper cool, and your tongue silent, and you will see and learn much without the interference of a second person. I am going to open an office in Nottingham, my native town, and if ever you want a friend in the hour of need, come to Josiah Bassett in the full confidence of affection, and I will help you."

This speech roused all my curiosity. I pressed him eagerly to tell me all he knew respecting me and my uncle, but he refused to satisfy my earnest inquiries.

The departure of Mr. Bassett, which I regarded as a calamity, proved one of the most fortunate events in my life.

His place was supplied by a gentleman of the name of Harrison, who was strongly recommended to Mr. Moncton by his predecessor as an excellent writer, a man well versed in the law, sober and industrious, and in whose integrity he might place the utmost reliance. He had no wish to enter into the profession, but only sought to undertake the management of the office as head clerk.

Mr. Moncton was a man who never associated himself with a partner, and regarded despotic rule as the only one that deserved the name.

When Mr. Harrison was introduced in propria personâ he did not seem to realize his employer's expectations—who, from Mr. Bassett's description, had evidently looked for an older and more methodical person, and was disappointed in the young and interesting individual who presented himself. But as he required only a moderate salary for his services, he was engaged on trial for the next three months.

CHAPTER VII.

GEORGE HARRISON.

George Harrison was not distinguished by any remarkable talents; or endowed with that aspiring genius which forces its way through every obstacle, and places the possessor above the ordinary mass with whom he is daily forced to associate. Yet, his was no common character; no every-day acquaintance, with whom we may spend a pleasant hour, and care not if we ever meet again in our journey through life.

The moment he entered the office my heart was drawn towards him by an irresistible, mysterious impulse, so that looking upon him I became attached to him, and felt confident that the friend whom I had ardently wished to obtain for so many hopeless years, was now before me.

This impression was strengthened by the simple, unaffected, frank manner in which he met the advances of the other clerks. There was a charm in his smile, in the rich tones of his deep, mellow voice, which made me anxious to catch the one, and hear the other again, though both were marked by quiet, subdued sadness.

His face, strictly speaking, could not be called handsome; and his general appearance was more remarkable for a refined and gentlemanly demeanour, than for anything particularly striking in form or feature. A good head, fine intelligent hazel eyes, and a profusion of curling dark brown hair, redeemed his countenance from mediocrity; but its careworn, anxious expression, showed too clearly, that some great life-sorrow, had blighted the early promise of youth and hope.

It was some days before I had an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with him. We were preparing for the spring assizes, and there was work enough in the office to have employed twice the number of hands. Nothing was heard but the scratching of pens upon paper, from early day until midnight.

At last the hurry was over, and we had more leisure to look about us. Mr. Moncton was attending a circuit in the country, and his watchful eye was no longer upon us. The clerks were absent at dinner; Mr. Harrison and I were alone in the office, which he never left till six, when he returned to his lodgings in Charlotte Street to dine; and unless there happened to be a great stress of business which required his presence, we saw him no more that night.

After regarding me for some minutes with an earnest scrutiny which, impulsive creature that I was, almost offended me, he said—

"Am I mistaken, or is your name really Moncton?"

"Really and truly, Geoffrey Moncton, at your service. What made you doubt the fact?"

"I had always heard that Robert Moncton had but one son."

"Surely there is enough of the breed, without your wishing to affiliate me upon him. I flatter myself that we do not in the least resemble each other. And as to the name, I have so little respect for it, for his sake, that I wish some one would leave me a fortune to change it; for, between ourselves, I have small reason to love it. He is my uncle—my father's younger brother—and I find the relationship near enough."

This explanation led to a brief sketch of my painful, though uneventful history, to which Mr. Harrison listened with an air of such intense interest that, though it flattered my vanity, not a little surprised me. When I concluded, he grasped my hand firmly, muttering to himself—

"It is like him—just like him. The infernal scoundrel!"

"What do you know about him?" said I, astonished at the excited state into which my revelations had thrown him.

"Only too much," he responded, with a heavy sigh; and sinking back in his chair, pressed his hands to his head, like one who wished to shut out painful recollections, while I continued to grasp his arm and stare at him in blank amazement. At length, rousing himself, he said with a faint smile,—

"Don't make big eyes at me, Geoffrey. I cannot tell you all you wish to know. At some other time, and in some other place, I will repay the confidence you have reposed in me, and satisfy your queries; but not here—not in the lion's den."

"For heaven's sake! don't keep silent now," I cried. "You have roused my curiosity to such a pitch, that I shall go mad if you hold your tongue. You must speak out."

"I must not, if, by so doing, I ruin your prospects and my own. Be satisfied, Geoffrey, that I am your friend; that henceforth I will regard you as a brother, and do all in my power to lighten and shorten your present bondage."

The generous assurance he gave me of a warm and affectionate sympathy in my destiny, nearly atoned for twenty years of sorrow and degradation. The intense desire I felt to deserve his esteem, made me anxious to cultivate my mind, which I had suffered to lie waste. Harrison kindly offered his aid, and supplied me with books. I now devoted myself with zeal to the task. For the first time I had a motive for exertion; I no longer vegetated; I had a friend, and my real life commenced from that day. I set apart two hours each night for reading and study, and soon felt a keen relish for the employment.

"In these lie your best hope of independence, Geoffrey," said my kind friend, laying his hand upon a pile of books, which, for lack of a table, he placed upon the