town, and he changed to live with me. In
the day he was at work in one of those vast
manufactories of iron machinery;—I did see
over one once, but what with the heat, the
noise, and the stir, I could not tell now
what it was like—and in the evenings I had
him mostly with me. He was not so merry
a companion as he had used to be, for his great
idea had just begun to germinate, and many
a silent hour I sat at one end of the table,
while he at the other was working out his
calculations, and making drawings of different
parts of machinery. He got to making models
after, and many a one did he fling down and
break. There was difficulty after difficulty
to overcome.

He would lecture to me about his drawings
sometimes, and try to make me understand
the relative power of this and that
lever and wheel; and though I could have
remembered at the time, I could not tell you
now, if I would, one fiftieth part of what he
said. This was to save labour and waste;
that for safety; this for speed. It was impossible
to avoid being interested in his work,
seeing how his heart and soul were bound up
in it. I was as eager he should succeed as he
was himself. "If I do succeed, Mary, it will
be the making of me; and I will succeed," he
used to say, after every failure. And I
believed he would.

V.

MONTHS went on, years went on, and Robert
was twenty-five, with his idea still unwrought
out. In the midst of his hard toil and
absorbing thoughts I was glad that he still
kept his kind, warm, manly heart. There is
a short bit in his story that I must not leave
out—that about Rosie Kirwan. Her mother
was a near neighbour of ours, and we had
made acquaintance in our walks. Rosie came
to tea with me sometimes, and that was the way
she and Robert came, first to know, and
afterwards to love, each other. Rosie was not so
pretty as she was fresh-looking—fresh as a
May morning in Alsterdale, or as a half-blown
rose; a tall girl, straight and strong, with a
round waist and a throat white and smooth as
a marble figure; a firm step, a quick eye, and
rather a breezy temper. I liked her very
much; she was a frank, honest, sensible girl,
and her mother had brought her up well.

They came to an agreement between themselves
soon, and it was really a pleasant sight
to see Robert at his work and Rosie leaning
over him, bending her fine brows and setting
her lips firm in a conscientious endeavour to
take it all in, and then giving me a quick
little glance across the table, as much as to
say, "I can't understand it one bit."

Mrs. Kirwan was satisfied with the
engagement, though I did not quite approve of
her way of speaking of it. She said, "It is
always a good speculation for a girl to marry
a young man of talent and energy, though he
may not be rich; he is almost sure to make
some way in the world. I must confess that
I should not let Rosie throw herself away on
anybody; and, if Robert gets forward as he
promises to do, I shall be glad to let him
have her. She is a good girl."

The young things made no calculations,
being content, apparently, with the present
time of loving each other.

VI.

AT last the day came when Robert walked
into my parlour one night and said, "It is
done, Mary." His face was all alight with
pride and satisfaction, for Rosie was there,
and, when he spoke, she marched straight up
to him, and gave him a kiss. "I promised I
would, Mary," said she, blushing like a rose;
"I promised him six months ago;" and the
shame-faced girl looked as if she had done
wrong, whereas Robert vowed she had been
hard as flint, and that was the very first time
she had suffered their lips to meet. "Then
it is a kiss for luck," said I; and Rosie was
as still as a mouse all the evening after.

We had to hear about his success now. It
was a grand invention we knew then, and all
the world knows it now; but, there were
many things to be done before Robert was to
be a made man by it. I believe people are
no more ready now than they were then to
adopt new systems; but it had been
submitted to a number of men, both scientific
and practical, and they all pronounced it the
finest invention of the age. He must get it
patented; he must do this, he must do that,
he must do the other. Words.

He bade Rosie and me good-bye, and carried
his model to London—it was great expense—
and there he stayed; we being very anxious
all the time. To tell you the backwards and
forwards work he had, the advice on one
hand and the warnings on the other, would
be more than I could do, or than you would
care to hear. Besides, is it not known well
enough, by all who interest themselves in
such things, the trouble there is to get a new
invention adopted?

All this time in London was lost time.
Robert wanted money, and money he had
not, and he was not earning any. My father
had done for him all he ever intended to do,
so I parted with my fortune, all but a bare
maintenance, and kept him for a month or
two longer, trying on all sides to get someone
to adopt his invention. Nobody would or
could. It was a depressed season, and there
was no spirit to risk the production of
anything novel and costly.

He came back to me: that time I was
alone, and glad I was that it so happened. I
should not have known him if I had met him
in a strange place unexpectedly. All the
healthy brown was gone out of his face, his
skin was pallid, his eyes and temples were sunk,
his clothes were hanging about him as if they
had been made for a man twice his size. When
he spoke, it was in a hurried, nervous way, and