“Most ready out there?” asked Mr. Newt.

“Most ready, Sir.”

“Brisk’s the word this morning, you know.  Please to copy these letters.”

Venables said nothing, took the letters, and went out.

“Now, young man,” said the merchant, “tell me what you want.”

The lad’s heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the May sun.

“My father’s been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something for myself.  He advised me to come to you.”

“Why?”

“Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn’t give me employment.”

“Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad.  Have you ever been in a store?”

“No, Sir.  I left school last week.”

Mr. Newt looked out of the window.

“Your father’s been unfortunate?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How’s that?  Has he told a lie, or lost his eyes, or his health, or has his daughter married a drunkard?” asked Mr. Lawrence Newt, looking at the lad with a kindly humor in his eyes.

“Oh no, Sir,” replied the boy, surprised.  “He’s lost his money.”

“Oh ho! his money!  And it is the loss of money which you call ‘unfortunate.’  Now, my boy, think a moment.  Is there any thing belonging to your father which he could so well spare?  Has he any superfluous boy or girl? any useless arm or leg? any unnecessary good temper or honesty? any taste for books, or pictures, or the country, that he would part with?  Is there any thing which he owns that it would not be a greater misfortune to him to lose than his money?  Honor bright, my boy.  If you think there is, say so!”

The youth smiled.

“Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than poverty,” said he.

Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were belied by his beaming face.

“Worse things than poverty!  Why, my boy, what are you thinking of?  Do you not know that it is written in the largest efforts upon the hearts of all Americans, ‘Resist poverty, and it will flee from you?’ If you do not begin by considering poverty the root of all evil, where on earth do you expect to end?  Cease to be poor, learn to be rich.  I’m afraid you don’t read the good book.  So your father has health”—­the boy nodded—­“and a whole body, a good temper, an affectionate family, generous and refined tastes, pleasant relations with others, a warm heart, a clear conscience”—­the boy nodded with an increasing enthusiasm of assent—­“and yet you call him unfortunate—­ruined!  Why, look here, my son; there’s an old apple-woman at the corner of Burling Slip, where I stop every day and buy apples; she’s sixty years old, and through thick and thin, under a dripping wreck of an umbrella when it rains, under the sky when it shines—­warming herself by a foot-stove in winter, by the sun in summer—­there the old creature sits.  She has an old, sick, querulous husband at home, who tries to beat her.  Her daughters