(at anyrate in the first instance) by servitude, and I
undertook, before I sought a service for Arthur,
to induce Mr. Moreen, the upholsterer—with
whom John Bentmore had lived twice as fore-man
—to employ him; but John's hopes on this
head were slight. "He won't do it, sir," he
said, with a sigh of self-reproach; "and I don't
deserve that he should. He's a just man—Mr.
Moreen. And I—I owe him money. I owe him
a large sum of money, and he's not one to
over-look that. If indeed he would let the boy work
for him any number of years without wages,
and so pay him off what I owe, that would be a
blessed thing! but he won't do it! he won't do
it, sir. I have enraged him; and Mrs. Moreen
—she can't overlook his having lent me the
money; not but what it would be the best
thing they could do to get paid; for Arthur
would do his duty by them, I'm sure of that.
He's very different from me, you see, sir—a
deal better. He's got twenty times my head for
figures, and book-keeping, and that. He'll make
a first-rate man of business, will Arthur. They
say at his school, that he's an uncommon turn
for mathematics. It is a pity, ain't it, to make
a menial of such a lad as that?"

And the father looked proudly and fondly at his
boy, who was seated in the hospital window
intent upon a book; and a single tear rolled
down upon his pillow.

The hour came at last. He fixed on his boy
a glance of loving recognition, and the tender
light faded away; in its place there came a film,
and all was over.

II.

Arthur Bentmore had not completed his
thirteenth year when his father died. He was tall
for his age, with small and well-cut features. The
mouth was full and handsome; but the
compressed lips, and square chin, indicated
firmness, whilst the singularly prominent eyes had
in them a thoughtful abstraction unusual in one
so young. I had learnt from Mr. Gillies, his
schoolmaster (whom I had met more than once
by his father's bedside), that he was studious and
persevering, though not particularly clever; and
from the father himself, that he was dutiful and
obedient in no ordinary degree. But my own
observations had served rather to puzzle than to
enlighten me, although at one conclusion I had
arrived, namely, that he was reserved even to
secretiveness. His nature seemed to be one of those
which, to open at all, must be wrenched open.

His father's affairs were set in order with as
little delay as possible. When all was sold,
scarcely enough remained to pay the funeral
nnd other necessary expenses; nothing whatever
towards defraying Mr. Moreen's debt. I had
clothed the boy in decent mourning, and paid
his small arrears of schooling myself, taking
him for the moment into my own lodging; and
now I felt it was time to think of putting him
in some way of earning an independent livelihood;
but it was not without the utmost
difficulty and considerable exercise of patience, that
I wrung from him the confession that he would
rather be an upholsterer than a servant.

I took him to Mr. Moreen, whom I had long
been in the habit of attending professionally,
and who I believed had a real regard for me.
I would make an attempt in that quarter. After
all, it could but fail.

Mr. Moreen was a huge, sturdy, ruddy-faced
giant, working hard, living generously, doing
business, as business should be done, in a
business-like way. He piqued himself on the quality
of his materials, and the excellence of his
workmanship, and was wont to look with an eye of
something like contempt on any work but his
own. Though as straightforward, shrewd, and
experienced a tradesman as London ever
produced, he was completely under the thumb of
his wife. He came down to us now, from the
comfortable meat tea he had been enjoying with
Mrs. M. (as he respectfully called her) and the
children, wiping the crumbs from his mouth as
he entered. He smiled on seeing me; but cast
a sharp glance of something like disfavour on
my companion; who, pale and slender, looked
above his station in his new mourning suit,
relieved by an inch or two of his father's gold
chain, that peeped from his waistcoat. I said
it had been his late foreman's last wish that his
son should be brought up to the trade he had
followed himself, and that he had not been
without hope that Mr. Moreen would permit the
boy to be in his shop, at least for a while.

The upholsterer heard me attentively to the
end. He was not one to speak hastily, nor yet
one to mince matters when he did speak. He
knew his own mind, in general when. Mrs. M.
was not by.

"Sir, 1 wouldn't have a son of John Beutmore's
in my shop, not if you was to pay me
all he owed, and fifty pounds more to the back
of that. I've had enough of the father; I
don't want no more of the lot. That boy'll be
just like 'em all turn out as bad as the rest.
John Bentmore used me ill, sir. I trusted him,
and he deceived me. He deceived me."

"Not wilfully!" I interrupted. "When he
borrowed that money, he intended to repay it."

"I trusted him, and he deceived me," Mr.
Moreen resumed, not condescending to notice
my interruption. "He promised in black and
white, that he would pay back that money
before the year were out, and he never paid me
a shilling of it no, nor meant to it. There's
no honesty in the blood, that's where it is!
there's no honesty in the blood! Eighty-seven
pounds nine shillings and threepence that man
owed me, and I shall never see a farthing of it.
No, sir, I thank you; but I'll have nothing to
do with his boy."

"Father would have tried to pay you, if he
had lived, sir!" Arthur's young voice was heard
to say; "I know he would have done his best
to pay you."

I glanced at the boy. He was pale, and the
perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead.
His eyes, full of an eager and glowing light,
were fixed intently on the upholsterer. My
heart bled for him. It was cruel to speak thus
of his dead father in his presence.