I earned a pound—­positively a whole golden sovereign—­and when it lay in my hand my joy was too great for words.  What should I do with one sovereign and such a multiplicity of wants?  Do not laugh at me, reader, when I tell you what I did do, after long and anxious debate with myself.  I paid a quarter’s subscription at Mudie’s, so that my poor sister should have something to while away the dreary hours of the long day.  With the few shillings left I bought her a bottle of wine and some oranges.

That is years ago, but tears rise in my eyes now when I remember her pretty joy, how gratefully she thanked me, how delicious she found the wine, how she made me taste it, how she opened the books one after another, and could hardly believe that every day she would have the same happiness—­three books, three beautiful new books!  Ah, well!  As one grows older, such simple pleasures do not give the same great joy.

It was some time before I earned another.  It was just as welcome to me, and there came to me a great wonder as to whether I should spend the whole of my life in this hard work with so small a recompense.

“Surely,” I said to myself, “I shall rise in time; if I am diligent and attentive at the office, I must make my way.”

But, alas! the steps were very small, and the clerks’ salaries were only increased by five pounds a year at a time.  It would be so long before I earned two hundred a year, and at the same rate I should be an old man before I reached three hundred.

One morning—­it was the 1st of May—­bright, warm, sunny day, the London streets were more gay than usual, and as I walked along I wondered if ever again I should breathe the perfume of the lime and the lilac in the springtime.  I saw a girl selling violets and daffodils, with crocuses and spring flowers.  I am not ashamed to say that tears came into my eyes—­flowers and sunshine and all things sweet seemed so far from me now.

I reached the office, and there, to my intense surprise, found a letter waiting for me.

“Here is a letter for you, Mr. Trevelyan,” said the head clerk, carelessly.

He gave me a large blue official envelope.  If he had but known what it contained!

Some minutes passed before I had time to open it; then I read as follows: 

     “To Sir Edgar Trevelyan: 

“Sir:  We beg to inform you that by the death of Sir Barnard Trevelyan, and his son, Mr. Miles Trevelyan, who both died of the epidemic in Florence, you, as next of kin, will succeed.  We are not aware that the late Sir Barnard had any other relatives.  Crown Anstey, the residence of the late baronet, is ready at any time for your reception.  If you can favor us with a call today, we will explain to you the different ways in which the late baronet’s large fortune is invested.  We have managed the Crown Anstey property for some years, and hope to have the honor of continuing our business relations with you.  We are, sir, your obedient servants,

     “Moreland & Paine.”