A Well-Known Character

I look upon the night I have attempted to describe in the last chapter as one of the great nights of my little life. Friendless and lonely, I felt as if all things had conspired to deprive me of the object on which I had set my heart. I feared I was out of favour with God, and that all my convictions and dealings with religion were but hypocrisy and pretence. Without flattery, I knew that as a preacher I was tolerably acceptable of men; but why, I asked, does God, in his Providence, seem to be placing every obstacle in my way? I could say, honestly and unhesitatingly, I was no money-lover, and that my heart’s affections were fixed solely on preaching and fitting myself for the work. Still, I felt I could do nothing without money, and there I was, by my own folly, left “as poor as a church mouse.” I thought so little of money that I had not yet learned to take care of it. As I have already said, I believed I was deeply desirous to be of use in my day and time; but by now I hadn’t a penny to assist me in the work. My mind reverted, with discontent, I fear, to the scores of people I knew who were rolling in riches, but who had never dreamt of serving anybody but themselves; and Will Bryan’s words came forcibly to memory—“Old pockets! They are but intelligent pigs. It must be, look you, that the Great King does not place much value on money, or He wouldn’t have given so much of it to the dunderheads;” and he would add, “Sir, says Mr. Fox, they are sour.”

The question suddenly occurred to me had I been too much accustomed to rely upon Abel Hughes, and had Providence, by stripping me of all external help, invited me to throw myself, as I did, into its arms? It seemed presumption to think of going to college with nothing about me save a sufficiency of clothes and a few books. I remembered the man Thomas Bartley spoke of who, trusting to Providence, had died in Holywell workhouse. Anyhow, I resolved to do my best with the work I had begun, and tried to believe that God would speedily give me light upon my circumstances. Very early next morning I notified Miss Hughes of my determination to go to college. She was astounded. She had never believed, she said, I could be so cruel towards her. I tried to reason with her; but to no purpose. It was through her heart she saw everything, and not through her head. She offered me a good salary if I stayed on with her; but I refused. After much talk, she generously said she would give me a share of the business. That offer, also, I rejected. She then fell back upon the most effective argument a woman has at command—she began to cry. She taunted me with all the kindness she had shown me—pointed out how poor I was when I came to the Corner Shop—the comfortable home I had found there—what a mercy it was I had been brought under instruction by Abel— and what a figure I would have cut but for that. She said I was unfeeling, unkind, hard-hearted, ungrateful, selfish. Many other epithets did she use. She declared I cared for nobody but myself, and that it would not matter to me if I saw her “going on the parish.” The fact that she knew nothing of the business, she said, kindled no spark of sympathy in me. For all she could tell, she added, she might be without a home before three months were over.

I listened to her in silence, feeling, at the same time, that I was guilty on every count of her indictment. My fears were confirmed that she did not know anything of her brother’s affairs. I asked her to calm herself and wait till the morrow, when I believed I should be able to give her good advice. She answered, tartly, that if she could do without my services she could do without my advice, as well. I said not a word in rejoinder, for which, I must now admit, I repent. I went to the shop, and, with Jones’s assistance, worked hard all that day and through the night. Miss Hughes did not know, nor do I think she cared, what we were about, nor did she speak a word with either of us. I ought to have said that, immediately after Abel’s death, she handed all his keys to me, perfectly heedless of what she was about, and ready to die with her brother. Once I began the task I never rested until I had made an inventory of the whole stock. Abel, with but few exceptions, giving his customers no credit, it was no difficult matter to speedily set the shop books to rights. At the end of twenty-four hours I had a pretty clear notion of the property my master had left behind him. As I was jotting down the very last item Jones perched himself on his stool, placed his head—which, for some time, had been swimming—upon the counter, and slept like a top. Under other circumstances I should have thought it very bold of me, but taking into account Miss Hughes’s helplessness, and conscious, moreover, that my dead master was not frowning on me, I hesitated not in ransacking every cupboard, chest, and drawer that the place contained. I remember well, on opening one drawer in an oaken cupboard, wherein Abel kept his private papers, I remember, I say, the devil coming out of it, and he and I engaging in a very hard fight. In this drawer was a bundle of bank notes, and, said the devil to me: “Do you hear Jones snoring? Do you remember Abel’s intention to endow you with a number of these? You know no memorandum of them has been kept, and, even if there had been it would be a very easy matter to destroy it. If you were to take two, or three, or four of them, it wouldn’t be more than Abel would have given you, were he alive. It is exactly the same thing for you to take, as for Abel to have given them. It will be no theft at all, because, in a sense, you own some of them already. The probability is you won’t have as much as a ‘thank you’ from Miss Hughes for all your trouble. Well, if you’re not prepared to take two or three, take one—just one; you are certain Abel Hughes would have given you more. Remember you haven’t a single shilling in your possession, and that it is impossible you can get along without money, so that whatever may be the sum taken you are sure to make good use of it.”

With many other promptings did the Enemy attempt my overthrow; but, thank God! I remembered the armour wherewith my mother had clad me. Never in my life was it of such use as now. Sheathed in it, I made the Devil flee. After completing my self-imposed task, I went to talk to Miss Hughes with an easy conscience and with hands on which there was no hair—considerations of greater value than millions of money. My reception was cool and unconcerned, but I cared not for that. I addressed her, as far as I can recollect, in these words:

“Miss Hughes, it was unnecessary you should have reminded me of all your kindness towards me, because I never forgot it, for one day. I know you think me hard-hearted for leaving you and going to college. But I fancy you believe me honest, or else you wouldn’t have trusted so much under my hands, neither would I have done what I did. I have reason to believe that you know nothing of the situation you have been left in by the death of my master. It is surprising to me that so sagacious a man should have kept this knowledge from you, and more surprising still that he never made a will. Without asking your permission, I have entered upon a tolerably minute inquiry into his circumstances, and I find that, after paying all his creditors my master died possessed of property which— including stock, money on the books, in the bank and in the house—amounts to about fifteen hundred pounds. This will be sufficient to support you comfortably, assuming you live to old age; and my advice is—you can reject it if you like—that you sell the stock and business. I think I know a friend who would willingly take everything off your hands. But as for my staying here to look after the business—that is out of the question. I am determined to go to college; and I am certain that if you could only consult my old master, he would tell you that I am doing right.”

My words acted like magic on her; her sourness melted like snow on a slate in the sunshine, only much more quickly. She looked incredulous one moment, satisfied and tender, as her wont, the next; for she and I had been great friends always.

“I spoke nasty things to you, Rhys,” she observed. “I did not know what I was saying. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? I always did like you; you know that yourself. You have more sense than I. Poor Abel used to say, when you were a boy, that you could twist me round your fingers. You know best, and I’ll do as you tell me. If I got anyone here in your place, he would only rob me; what do you think? I have known, this long while, you wanted to go to Bala; so I won’t try to stop you. You’ll get there everything you want, and you’ll be just in your element. Must you go next week? Can’t you make it a fortnight? What’ll you have for dinner? Shall I stew some kidneys for you?” &c., &c.

“Simple woman!” something whispered to me. “Ask her for that which you are bound to have—money.” “I will not,” said I, “No; independence is worth something, and I shall not ask her for a penny piece, although I’m sure she would not deny me, were I to do so.” It was quite clear she knew no more about the college than did Thomas Bartley, and that she regarded it as next door to heaven, where they neither wived, nor ate, nor drank. Poor old thing! If she enquired she would have found that the students were guilty of one and the other of all these things, to a greater degree or less. Thomas Bartley and Miss Hughes were not the only ones, it seemed, who fancied Bala a place flowing with milk and honey, and that once a young man got there he was all right. For anything I know, not a single member of the church to which I belonged had the slightest objection to my going to college. Monthly Meeting had unanimously desired me to go. But, Thomas Bartley excepted, no one living asked me what my prospects were of supporting myself there, although they must have known I had not, at the time, lost as much as one of my teeth. I do not mention this in any carping spirit. The only man, so I imagined, who realised the importance of the enterprise which a poor youth embarked upon when he went to college, was Abel Hughes; and he, by this time, was in his grave. For all that, I resolved to challenge Providence. Was the challenge accepted? We shall see. I considered it my duty to do all I could for Miss Hughes before leaving her. To cut the story short, I succeeded, with the help of a man experienced in such affairs, in making arrangements for the transfer of the business to the friend who was anxious to get it. I reckoned Miss Hughes, after all had been settled, would be worth about fourteen hundred pounds, or about a hundred less than my original estimate. In view of the present contingency, I had arranged with the buyer to consider little Jones as part of the fixtures; a transaction which eased a good deal the load my mind had laboured under ever since the night when Will Bryan and I came so near to hanging the miserable creature.

In the midst of hunting up my effects and packing my books into an old tea chest, I several times stood stock-still and dumb, while something said to me: “What a fool you are to throw up a good place, refuse a capital salary, and lose the chance of one day becoming a prosperous trader. You must be mad!” But then, something else, within me, said: “What does it matter? The ‘old pockets’ may have all the business and money, for my part, if I can, in any way, get to college, and pick up some sort of a living there.” I believed my intention was simple and straightforward, and, further, that Providence would not allow me to starve. I knew if I told my best friends of my poverty, they would have cordially helped me; but I could not stoop to that. It was a Friday night, and I was to leave for College on the following Monday. I had no engagement to preach on the Sunday, having refused to enter into one, lest I might be obliged to go to college in the meantime—for which I was now sorry. I remembered Will Bryan’s observation about my being “poor and proud.” But I could not help it. I had inherited this stupid independence from my mother, and I prayed earnestly for help to keep it, because it had become very precious in my sight. On the Friday night, Providence appeared fully bent upon humbling me to the dust and compelling me to do what I had never done before, namely, to ask the loan of a sovereign which I had no prospect of paying back. Of whom should I borrow? There was only one man on earth I had the temerity to apply to, and that was Thomas Bartley. As far as he was concerned, I felt as if the sovereign were in my hand before I had asked for it; and he was so ingenuous, methought, that I could, with some confidence, preserve my dignity in the borrowing. Thomas was evidently the man. But I resolved not to ask even Thomas until the last hour, lest I should be forestalling Providence; for I strove hard to believe that it would take care of me.

These thoughts were hovering about my mind when Miss Hughes knocked at the door of my room and came in, saying,. “Rhys, William Williams, the deacon at Blaenycwm, wants to see you.” I was down in the kitchen before you could have counted ten, although I had counted a hundred things in the interval. William was a noble old fellow, whose errand was to get me to preach at Cwm on the Sunday, the Rev. “having broken his appointment, without giving any reason for so doing.” My back went up on the instant. I never remember, save that time, rejoicing to find a man break an engagement. But, the sly dog I was! I advanced several weighty reasons why I could not come to Cwm, the chief being that I was going to college on the following morning. But William urged that that was the very reason why I should accept the invitation, adding that he would take care I was sent home on the Sunday night. After much persuasion I gave the promise required. I had, it will be seen, learned early how to bluff in negotiating an engagement, but, thank goodness! I speedily learned to give over the habit. I now felt Providence was beginning to smile upon me. I was in excellent spirits on the Sabbath, at night especially, while being conveyed home with half a sovereign in my pocket. I believed, nevertheless, it would be prudent for me to borrow the sovereign of Thomas Bartley, so that I might have “something to fall back on.” Thomas and Barbara promised to come to the station on Monday morning to bid me good-bye. While at breakfast the thought struck me, what if Thomas hadn’t a sovereign in his pocket? On consideration, it was not likely that Thomas carried any gold about him, well off though I knew him to be. It was clear I must visit the Tump to make sure of my loan. I accordingly hurried through with breakfast, there being only a couple of hours to spare before the train started.

“Why do you eat so fast?” Miss Hughes asked.

“The time is short,” I replied.

“You remember, Rhys,” she said, “that I shall expect you to spend your Christmas holidays with me, if you’re not too proud. I will keep your bed for you, for by that time I shall have gone to live to ‘the Cottage.’”

I thanked her, and began to fancy Providence was now setting to work in earnest.

“Were there any wages due to you from Abel?” she queried.

“None,” I responded. “I got my money in advance, a month ago, up to last Saturday.”

“Here,” she rejoined; “I know you’ll find everything you want in college; but p’r’aps you won’t get much pocket money. Here’s five pounds for you, if you’ll accept ’em.”

I came near shouting Hallelujah! The tears sprang into my eyes, and in order to hide them, I coughed at a terrible rate, as if a bread-crumb had gone down the wrong way. I thanked Miss Hughes heartily for a kindness which she, I knew, rejoiced to find I had not refused. There was no necessity now for going to the Tump and asking the loan of a sovereign. I was thoroughly set up, and as merry as a lark, in consequence. I parted with Miss Hughes on the most excellent terms. And, to tell the truth, I did that which I had not done for many years—since, in fact, my wicked days, when I wanted a shilling—I gave her wrinkled cheek a kiss; and, amidst the tears and sobs of the kindly, simple old soul, who bade me be sure to write her, I too, as Will Bryan said, made my exit.

I felt very happy on the morning I first left home, for two reasons. To begin with, it seemed as if Providence were clearly showing its approval of my resolution to go to college; and secondly, I had strong grounds for believing that I had a warm place in the affections of numerous friends who came to wish me farewell. Not the least amongst these were David Davis and Thomas and Barbara Bartley. Whenever the Bartleys went away by train they took care to be at the station at least an hour before the appointed time. Although I had come that morning quite fifteen minutes earlier than was necessary, Thomas protested that I was within an ace of losing the train. Barbara sat upon a hamper on the platform, punctuating, with a nod of the head, every paragraph of her husband, who spoke unceasingly; I trying to take in every word he said, thinking it would afford matter of amusement for my fellow- lodger at Bala, whoever he might be. When the train came in, I shook hands with the friends and with Barbara, who was too tired to get up from the hamper, I thought. As soon, however, as I was seated in the carriage, she jumped up to her feet, and Thomas, taking hold of the hamper, swung it on to the seat beside me, saying, softly, in my ear: ‘It’s for you, that is. Take care of it, and remember, directly we hear of a cheap trip to Bala, Barbara’n I are bound to come and see how you are.” And before I could say a word, Thomas was powdering his way out of the station, with Barbara leaning upon his arm.

I was overwhelmed; and yet the act was Thomas Bartley’s all over. 1 felt certain the hamper contained valuable treasure to the young man of hearty appetite. But I showed no curiosity to know its contents (as I might have done by trying its weight or putting my nose to the cover for a sniff), there being another young man—my sole fellow-traveller—in the same compartment, whom I did not want to see that I was not perfectly cognisant of the nature of my prize. We were whisked along towards Corwen. Presently I began taking stock of my fellow-traveller. I do not know whether other people have felt the same—perhaps they have, foolish though the feeling be —but in travelling by train, let the number of those in the same compartment be what it may, the impression will cross my mind, after I have been in their company for a short time, that I have seen them somewhere previously, and ought to know them. Of course, this is only a delusion, and I do not know how to account for it. Do we, I wonder, segregate faces—classify them—and, on coming into the presence of strangers and looking at them a while, do we, unawares, single them out as belonging to one section or the other? And do we, after much staring, fancy we ought to know the unit, the individual, by the class to which he belongs? I cannot tell. I felt sure I ought to know my fellow-traveller, although common sense told me I had never seen him before. I guessed him to be three or four years older than myself. He was white-skinned, jet black-haired and eyebrowed, wore homespun clothes, and, I believed, hailed from Carnarvonshire. He had a book in his hand, which, however, he did not read, for he looked sadly out of window—not on the landscape I was certain—but at something else unknown to me; possibly his home, his family, or uncertain future. For some time he seemed wrapped in the profoundest study. I burned with a desire to speak to him. I was sure, in my own mind, of the sort of voice he had, and entertained no doubt whatever but that he was a Welshman. Presently I remarked, in English, that the weather was delightful. He answered, in the same language, but with a decidedly Welsh accent. He evinced no desire to enter into a conversation, for which I was sorry, because I liked his face very much and, however idle might be the notion, felt that my fellow passenger’s spirit and mine had ‘consorted before ever we saw each other in the flesh. Speedily I, like himself, became absorbed in my own thoughts. We both got out at Corwen, which at that time was the farthest place we could go to by train. I had secured my precious hamper, and was looking after my box and tea-chest, which were in the van, and had my name on them, when someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Lewis, is that your hamper, Sir?”

“Yes,” replied I; “what about it?”

“Oh, nothing,” he returned, “only I wanted to take care of it for you. What’s up? Is there a strike? There’s only two of you come to-day, and I’d made sure of having a good load. That’s the way with you students; you always do things drib-drab, instead of clubbing together and making one job of it. Have you anything else besides these two boxes and the hamper?”

At first I could not make him out. He was a burly, cheerful, bold-looking man, and yet his boldness became him. It would be difficult to guess whether he was butcher, farmer, or horse-dealer. However, I soon discovered that he wished to convey me and my things to Bala. I asked him how came he to know it was to Bala I was bound?;

“Man alive,” he returned, “even if I hadn’t read the address on your box I should have known you, directly. I could pick a student, and any sort of a Methodist preacher, out of a thousand. I am so used to them, Sir. D’ye know, I spotted the other one and clapped him into the coach before you could look about you?”

“Here’s a wonderful man for you,” said I to myself. ‘I never knew till now that I was like a student; and how can I be, since I never was at Bala?”

All the same, I was not sorry that this man, whoever he was, should have taken me for a student. I followed him as a dog does his master. I saw at once that my angel was very well known. From the greetings he got I found his name to be E——. I noticed that, here and there, one who was pretty free with him would address him by the name of the stuff which they often make pudding with. I did not know, at the time, whether this was his proper or a nick name. When he had led me to his conveyance, I was surprised at perceiving that “the other one,” Mr, E, had spoken of was my serious fellow-traveller by train. So, this “other one” was going to college, like myself! What a pity I did not Know it sooner! How had Mr. E found it out directly he saw him, while I had been in his company for some time and the fact had never once crossed my mind? I consoled myself with the reflection that “the other one” was as dense as I was. While Mr. E was putting my luggage into his coach, I cast my eye upon the horses, my first impression of them being that there was no danger of their running away and leaving us behind. I was in a bit of a fix as to whether they were frames of new horses which had not acquired flesh and become perfected, or whether they were old horses on the eve of vanishing. Although not much acquainted with horse flesh, I fancied, after looking them well over, that the sharply defined points of these brutes proclaimed them to belong to the vanishing class. A minute inspection of them resolved itself into this: “New horses,” I thought, “would not be wise enough to take advantage of a respite to indulge in a nap; therefore these must be old.” I noticed that one of them smiled in his sleep, as if dreaming of the time when they fed him on oats, while the other started up, now and again, in terror, as if he had just become aware that the tanner was taking aim at him with a gun. It suddenly struck me that, as I had heard the students did, they, too, perhaps, “lived on very little.” My fellow-passenger was already seated in the coach, lost in contemplation once more. Mr. E was not very ready to start with so small a cargo. After much fussing, inquiring, searching and haggling, he succeeded at last in luging a couple of old women on board. As an apology for the delay, he said to me, when I was taking my place beside him on the dickey—“We must have a bit of ballast, you know, Mr. Lewis, or we shan’t be safe.” It was one of the most marvellous things I ever saw. The crack of Mr. E ’s whip, accompanied by a guttural sound, not unlike a curse, had the effect upon those horses, literally, of the cry above the dry bones! The poor creatures were instantly all life, their dread of the driver being such that they would rather have dropped stone dead on the roadside than disobey him.

“They are excellent things to go, Mr. E———,” I remarked.

“That just depends on who is driving them, Sir,” he returned. “The students complain shockingly that it is impossible to make them move. See here;” and once more Mr. E uttered that fearful guttural sound and used the whip unsparingly. The horses strained themselves to the utmost, panting in the back with fright, as I have seen animals do at the unexpected burst of a thunderclap.

“It is I, Sir,” added Mr. E——, “who lets out horses to the students for Sunday appointments. And if they were only to do as I tell them, the creatures would go the pace fast enough. But they are too quiet by half; these students are. Do you know what? Every horse I’ve got can tell a student from another man. They know students are preachers, and take liberties with them in consequence. There’s no use in being too particular, Sir; if you want horses to go you must ——them. Ynogodariochiwaliaid!* D’ye see how they step out, now? Where are you going to preach next Sunday? I should think you’ll want a horse. You come to me on Friday night. What! no engagement? You’re sure to get one, next Sunday, ’cause half the students won’t have come back, and there’ll be lots of letters wanting preachers, you shall see. I know all about these things, Sir. Have you been to Bala before? Where are you going to lodge?”

It would be impossible for me to describe, accurately and in detail, the information and guidance I got from Mr. E -, in the course of the drive from Corwen to Bala—all of burning interest, and all eagerly drunk in. He gave me the history of the family I was going to lodge with, from top to toe. Without my asking him but few questions, he outlined for me, in his own peculiar fashion, the principal characters of the town. Before I had reached my journey’s end I knew who lived at Rhiwlas, at the Big Bull, the Little Bull, the White Lion, Plas Coch, and Post Office; the names of the chapel deacons, the doctors of divinity and medicine, and of many others. But what he loved to dwell upon was the students. He knew them all personally, the counties they came from, and with whom they lodged. He said of one that “he was a cure;” of another that “he had nothing at all in him;” and of a third, that he was “a bit of a swell,” &c. He told me several stories about them, with every one of which his own horses had something to do. I considered Mr. E a very entertaining character, and I am certain I never in my life learned so much in so short a time. I liked him for taking such interest in the students. I failed to discover whether he was a religionist or not, and I thought it would be impertinent to ask. His intimate acquaintance with the chapel people and cause, and his knowledge of the collegians, made me think he was; but when he addressed the horses, parenthetically as it were, with his “Ynogodariochiwaliaid,” I feared he was not. Little did I suspect at the time I should have so much to do with Mr. E—— during my stay at Bala. There quickens in my memory at this moment many an interesting occurrence connected with him which would afford a fat pasture of amusement for the students’ rack, and the noting of which would have been a special pleasure to me. But inasmuch as it is not a memoir of Mr. E that I am engaged on, I must leave that to an abler hand. Is it possible that in a world so full of sighs, and with so much harmless but effective material for driving away melancholy, nobody acquainted therewith will take in hand the setting forth in due order the character of one who differed so much from his fellows, and who, in his own way, was so eminently serviceable to Methodism?

Such was the attention I paid to our driver that I clean forgot my fellow-traveller. Not so Mr. E, who, before we reached Tryweryn bridge, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Mr, Williams, where’r you going to lodge?” And, upon receiving a reply, “How lucky! you’re both going to the same house. We’ll set these petticoats [alluding to the women], down on the bridge.” The occurrence was much more “lucky,” in my sight, because I felt a great interest in my taciturn fellow-student. A few minutes later he and I were sitting in a small and sombre parlour, with the housewife—a joyous, kindly, little Welshwoman—preparing tea for us, and telling us that we were the only students in Bala on that day. “But,” said she, “they’ll all be here, I think, in a week, or a fortnight at the latest.”

When two men meet, of similar mind and purpose, knowing they are likely to live together for some years, but the scantiest ceremony is necessary to bring about a mutual understanding and confidence. Needless to say, Mr. Williams and myself got to know much of each other within the half hour, and that we had become old friends before the students mustered in anything like force. Mr. Williams hailed from Carnarvonshire, and was, as his face proclaimed him to be, an honest, serious, straightforward young fellow. It is not for me to say how he felt; but as for me, I counted myself happy and fortunate in, for the first time, being brought into contact with one who understood me, one who trod the same path, was possessed of the like aim, and combatted the same difficulties, one with whom I could converse without reserve and without fear of his making a laughing-stock of me. Although older by some years than myself, I felt sure that I was the better Englishman, and knew more of the way of the world, for which I was indebted to Will Bryan and the place I was brought up in. After a little talk, however, I found he was the better divine, and I knew, before I heard him, that he was the better preacher also. So he was, and so he is to-day, an infinitely better preacher than I. They are rare hands at preaching, these Carnarvon boys. It is my opinion that the more English the place he is reared in, the worse preacher a man makes, and vice versâ. Williams came up exactly to that which I had dreamt my fellow -lodger would be. I cannot help acknowledging my great indebtedness to him. One occurrence comes fresh to mind, and I cannot refrain from laughter in recalling it. I think I have already stated that Abel Hughes always took care I dressed well. The day I went to Bala I had on a good suit of black clothes. While freely conversing with me, I saw that Williams was making careful note of my attire, and speaking as if he were thinking of something else. I guessed correctly what was transpiring in the ante-room of his mind. After taking a stroll to view the town and lake, and as we were recommencing our conversation by the—, I had almost said fire, only I remembered that Bala folk do not believe in fire as early in the year as we did in——shire—Williams said,—

“Mr. Lewis (he had not yet begun to call me Rhys, nor I to call him Jack), I am afraid we are a little unsuitably yoked. It’s best I should tell you the truth at once: I am but a poor lad. Mother, a widow, is dependent on me, and what troubles me mostly to-night is, did I do right by leaving her? It is plain to me that you are of a respectable, well-to-do family”

Before he could say another word I had exploded with laughter.

“Mr, Williams,” I remarked, “I’m a bit of a bard. And do you know my nom de plume? ‘Job on the Dunghill.’ You’ve seen the name, many times, of course. I am the very party, sir;? -whereupon I gave him a compendium of my family history (excluding my father and “the Irishman” from the relationship), and of my resources, actual and probable. Strange to relate, Williams became perfectly happy on hearing of my poverty! In order to convince him I was telling the truth, I narrated the story of the hamper which he had helped me to carry into the house. In further confirmation, did not he and I fetch the hamper into the parlour, and overhaul its contents? And did we not, that night, get additional proof of what was in it, and so on, day by day, until we saw the bottom?

And, lest I should forget to mention it again, let me here say, that the twain whose hearts’ were gladdened by the good things of that hamper, never, during their stay in college, saw the day that they had not a meal they could go to. They both, 1 shall believe, placed their trust in the loving care of the Master, and were not disappointed.