—lest his own impartiality should be called in
question—if he could favour our friend in there
with any little experience of the living and
moving world? It was in answer to this
inquiry, that a sunburnt gentleman of middle age,
with fine bright eyes, and a remarkable air of
determination and self-possession (he had come
over from the assize-town, he said, to see the
ight in the soot and cinders), spake thus:

OFFICE-HOURS were over, and we were all
taking down our straw-hats from the pegs
on which they dangled; ledgers were clasped,
papers put away, desks locked, and the work of
the day was at an end, when the white-haired
cashier came sidling towards me. "Mr.
Walford, sir, would you stay a moment? Would
you step this way? The firm wish to speak to
you."

Good old Job Wiginton always described
his employers, collectively, as "the firm." They
were sacred beings in his eyes, were Spalding
and Hausermann, and he had served them for a
quarter of a century, with exemplary fidelity
and respect. Job Wiginton, like myself, and like
the senior partner in that great mercantile
house, was an Englishman born and bred. He
had kept the books of Spalding and Hausermann
for twenty years at Philadelphia, and had
cheerfully followed them to California, when
they decided on settling in San Francisco City,
five years before. The younger clerks, French
or American for the most part, were rather
disposed to make a butt of the simple honest old
cashier; but he and I had been very good friends
during the four years of my employment, and I
always entertained a sincere respect for the old
man's sterling good qualities. Now, however,
for a reason I will presently explain, I was
onsiderably taken aback by the communication
which Mr. Wiginton made in his own
formal way.

"The firm wish to see me?" I
stammered, with a tell-tale colour rising in my
face. Old Job nodded assent, coughed, and
carefully wiped his gold-rimmed spectacles. I
had noticed, in spite of my own confusion, that
the cashier was dejected and nervous; his voice
was husky, his hand trembled as he rubbed the
dim glasses, and there was an unwonted moisture
in his round blue eyes. As I followed Job
into the inner parlour, where the merchants
usually sat during business hours, I marvelled
much what this wholly unexpected summons
might portend. I had formerly been on terms
of great and cordial intimacy with my
employers; but for the last three months, my
intercourse, with the senior partner in especial,
had been strictly confined to business matters
and dry routine. It was not that I had done
anything to forfeit the good opinion of the
firm. My employers had still the same confidence
in me, the same regard for me, as heretofore;
but there was an end, if not of friendship,
at least of cordiality. This partial estrangement
dated from the day when, with Emma Spalding
smiling through tears and blushes at my side, I
had ventured to tell the rich merchant that I
loved his only daughter, and that my love was
returned. It is an old, old story. We were
two young persons of the same country and
creed, alike in tastes and education, and in other
respects, wealth excepted, not so ill matched;
and we were together on a foreign shore, among
strange people. We had been suffered to
associate familiarly together, to read poetry, sing
duets, and so forth; for Emma had no mother to
watch against the approach of poverty-stricken
suitors, and Mr. Spalding was a proud man, and
not given to suspicion. Hence we glided—as
millions of couples have done before, and will
again—down the smooth rose-strewn path that
leads from friendship to love. I am sure of
one thing: it was not my employer's wealth, or
the idea of Emma's probable expectations from
her father—who had but two children, a son and
a daughter, between whom to divide the
accumulations of a life spent in honourable toil—which
allured me. But the time came when soft words
and fond looks had to give place to an avowal
of attachment. I spoke out to Emma, without
premeditation; and, once across the Rubicon,
other considerations, undreamed of as yet, came
to beset me, mockingly. What would Mr. Spalding
think of me? Surely, he could form but one
judgment of the poor clerk, with no property
beyond his pitiful savings, who had dared to
entangle the affections of his master's daughter?
My course was clear. I must tell him the truth,
at whatever cost to myself.

I did so. The disclosure was hurried on by
some slight unforeseen circumstance, as my
proposal had been, but I was at least candid in my
avowals. To do Mr. Spalding justice, he
rejected my suit in as gentle and courteous a
fashion as the harsh operation would admit of.
But, cut to the heart, I withdrew from his
presence, very very wretched, and had for many
days afterwards, serious thoughts of excluding
myself from observation, becoming a solitary
man, and leading a gloomy and moody life.
Better thoughts, however, lying deeper within
me, admonished me of the utter worthlessness of
a purposeless existence, and of the utter
contemptibility of the soul that can sink into it.
And thus it fell out that I ceased to visit my
employer as a private friend, and yet remained
in his employ.

Was I mean-spirited for staying on thus? I
cannot pretend to decide so nice a point, but
I know that it was a great stimulant to me to
have obtained a moral victory over myself, and
some relief to the disappointment of my dearest
hopes that I was still allowed to breathe the same
air as Emma Spalding, to catch a glimpse of her
sweet saddened face, were it but on the way to
church, though for three weary months we never
interchanged a word.

So I was not a little surprised when Job
Wiginton summoned me to the presence of
"the firm." My heart beat quickly as the
old cashier turned the handle of the door.
What could Mr. Spalding want of me? I had
kept the promise he had wrung from me; I had