“No vacancy for a clerk,” was the weary reply.

“Well, then, a foreman in the yard.  I have studied the economy of industry, and will undertake to get you the greatest amount of labor out of the smallest number of men.”

“I have a foreman already,” said Bartley, turning his back on him peevishly, for the first time, and pacing the room, absorbed in his own disappointment.

Hope was in despair, and put on his hat to go.  But he turned at the window and said:  “You have vans and carts.  I understand horses thoroughly.  I am a veterinary surgeon, and I can drive four-in-hand.  I offer myself as carman, or even hostler.”

“I do not want a hostler, and I have a carman.”

Bartley, when he had said this, sat down like a man who had finally disposed of the application.

Hope went to the very door, and leaned against it.  His jaw dropped.  He looked ten years older.  Then, with a piteous attempt at cheerfulness, he came nearer, and said:  “A messenger, then.  I’m young and very active, and never waste my employer’s time.”

Even this humble proposal was declined, though Hope’s cheeks burned with shame as he made it.  He groaned aloud, and his head dropped on his breast.

His eye fell on the will lying on the ground; he went and picked it up, and handed it respectfully to Bartley.

Bartley stared, took it, and bowed his head an inch or two in acknowledgment of the civility.  This gave the poor daunted father courage again.  Now that Bartley’s face was turned to him by this movement, he took advantage of it, and said, persuasively: 

“Give me some kind of employment, sir.  You will never repent it.”  Then he began to warm with conscious power.  “I’ve intelligence, practicability, knowledge; and in this age of science knowledge is wealth.  Example:  I saw a swell march out of this place that owns all the parish I was born in.  I knew him in a moment—­Colonel Clifford.  Well, that old soldier draws his rents when he can get them, and never looks deeper than the roots of the grass his cattle crop.  But I tell you he never takes a walk about his grounds but he marches upon millions—­coal! sir, coal! and near the surface.  I know the signs.  But I am impotent:  only fools possess the gold that wise men can coin into miracles.  Try me, sir; honor me with your sympathy.  You are a father—­you have a sweet little girl, I hear.”—­Bartley winced at that.—­“Well, so have I, and the hole my poverty makes me pig in is not good for her, sir.  She needs the sea air, the scent of flowers, and, bless her little heart, she does enjoy them so!  Give them to her, and I will give you zeal, energy, brains, and a million of money.”

This, for the first time in the interview, arrested Mr. Bartley’s attention.

“I see you are a superior man,” said he, “but I have no way to utilize your services.”

“You can give me no hope, sir?” asked the poor fellow, still lingering.