"Not he!" Mr. Moreen replied, putting his
hands into his waistcoat-pockets, and jingling
his loose silver, with a dodged kind of carelessness.
"Not he! 'twasn't in him. 'Twasn't in
him, up more than 'twas in his brother Charles,
who died some eight or nine years ago, deep in
debt. He was another of the same sort—always
borrowing, never paying nobody again—always
in trouble and difficulties—and prison (with a
strong emphasis). It's in the blood. There's
no backbone among them! And the boy's one
of them. Of course!"

He jerked out these sentences with strong
contempt, making short pauses between each,
that seemed to add tenfold weight to his words.

I felt indignant at the cruelty of such
remarks, before a lad whose parent was scarcely yet
cold in his grave. "Mr. Moreen," I said, "you
have a perfect right to refuse to employ the lad,
but you have no right to wound him, by casting
bitter reflections on the memory of his father."

"Sir," said Mr. Moreen, taking one square
brawny handout of his pocket, and stretching it
towards me with a gesture of power, "I speak as I
find. You forget as I've boys myself—a manyboys."

He heaved a sigh, that seemed to come from
some cavernous depths, and made a kind of
draught in the shop. "I've no less than five of
'em, and Mrs. M. expecting again in
October. Sir, them boys look to me to be fed
and clothed, and put in the way of feeding and
clothing their own selves. I've enough to do
for them. They're brought up strict, and honest,
and hard, they are—not taught to give
themselves airs not dressed like young Eton gents.
"What they wears is paid for, honest and reg'lar.
I should scorn to borrow money for my boys."

He turned away, and bending a little forward,
seemed to be examining a piece of old oak
furniture that stood near. But his thoughts were
evidently not with that. A moment afterwards
he resumed in a somewhat deprecating tone, as
though willing to justify himself to me. "You
see, sir, I've had little comfort since the day
when that money was borrowed. Mrs. M.,
she'll never overlook it. Nev-er overlook it.
Not if she lives to a hundred. She has her
ideas, has Mrs. M., and her opinions. Strong.
She was always against lending of it. Many a
time she says to me, says she, 'Mark my words,
M. Don't you trust that Bentmore he's a
slippery fellow/ If you please, sir," said Mr.
Moreen, suddenly taking his hands from his
pockets, and changing his tone to one of
uncommon briskness, by way of changing the
subject, "if you please, sir, we'll say no more about
it. Only I won't have nothing to do with his lad."

And so we parted.

III.

A page's place was soon found for Arthur
Bentmore; and a good one. One of my patients
willingly engaged him, inexperienced as he was,
after hearing the particulars of his story from
me. Admiral and Mrs. Sullivan were kindly,
liberal people, living alone, spoiling their
servants, as they would have spoilt their children
it' they had had any, laying themselves out to be
imposed upon in a hundred ways, on all sides.
Their butler. Mr. Tapps, having decanted their
wine, and imbibed the great er part of if, for
two-and-twenty years, was looked upon by them as a
priceless treasure. Their coachman, a corpulent
but lenient man, allowed them the use of their
horses for an hour or two occasionally, when
his wife thought it good for him to drive; nor
was there a pair in all London that could match
his for sleek and decorous slowness. The lady's-maid
had ruled her mistress with a yard measure
of iron for thirty years, and was looked upon by
that lady with a truly filial respect. The cook
had grown fat on the proceeds of that which she
sold out of her luxurious kitchen. The house-maid
and scullery-maid might as yet be
considered babies in the service, having been only
three and four years in the family; but,
influenced by the general tone of the establishment,
they were of course prepared to remain there
(if spared, and not taken possession of by the
baker or the greengrocer) half a century at least.
Every one of the domestics spoke of the house,
and all it contained, as theirs. It was "our
plate," "our carriage," "our dinner-parties,"
"our uniforms," "our court dresses," and "our
diamonds."

The first thing done by the treasure, Mr.
Tapps, on the new page being respectfully
presented to him by his mistress in my presence,
was to alter his cognomen to that of Jeames.
He could not be expected to call him any other.
Of course not. Jeames were the proper name
for a page, and had been ever since he were a
page himself. "And if you does as I tell you,"
said Mr. Tapps, with dignified emphasis, turning
to the ci-devant Arthur, and mingling encouragement
with the stern dignity of office, "if you
does as I tell you, and minds nothing nor nobody
else, you'll do well enough in time, I des-say."

During the page's probation, the reports of
his conduct were excellent. Mrs. Sullivan had
nothing to say but in his praise. Tapps, the
treasure, spoke highly of him. Tapps was
entirely satisfied. He had broken wonderfully
little crockery for a raw lad in his first service,
and there was a marked improvement in his
double knocks.

I was sitting one morning in my consulting-room,
having just dismissed the last of my
gratuitous patients, when my page (I called him
my page, from having put a guiding hand to his
destiny) called upon me. He looked thin and
ill, and paler even than usual.

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" I said, thinking
that the boy grew too fast, and that he ought to
be well nourished, and not overworked.

"Nothing, sir. I came to speak to vou on a
little matter that——"

He paused.

"What is it?"

"Well, sir, I came to ask you—that is
(correcting himself, as though he had not been
sufficiently respectful)—I made bold to come
and ask you, if you would kindly take care of
this money for me, sir?"