Mr. Lawrence Newt’s talk ceased with that about business.  When the scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out.  He stirred the fire if it were winter.  He stepped into the outer office.  He had a word for Venables.  Had Miss Venables seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer?  It is called “Pelham,” and will be amusing to read aloud in the family.  Will Mr. Venables call at Carville’s on his way up, have the book charged to Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt’s compliments, to his sister?  If it were summer he opened the window, when it happened to be closed, and stood by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at the ships and the streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when he might have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollars apiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon’s cotton lace.

One day he sat at his table writing letters.  He was alone in the inner room; but the sun that morning did not see a row of pleasanter faces than were bending over large books in odoriferous red Russia binding, and little books in leather covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper, in the outer office of Lawrence Newt.

A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by the silent activity he beheld.  He did not speak; the younger clerks looked up a moment, then went on with their work.  It was clearly packet-day.

The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respect for the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that Thomas Tray looked up at last, and said,

“Well, Sir?”

“May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?”

“In the other room,” said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with both hands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russia book, and letting them gently down—­proud of being the author of that clearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography of Lawrence Newt’s business.

The youth tapped at the glass door.  Mr. Newt said, “Come in,” and, when the door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the ink in it poised above the paper, he said, kindly, “Well, Sir?  Be short.  It’s packet-day.”

“I want a place, Sir.”

“What kind of a place?”

“In a store, Sir.”

“I’m sorry I’m all full.  But sit down while I finish these letters; then we’ll talk about it.”

CHAPTER XV.

A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER.

The lad seated himself by the window.  Scratch—­scratch—­scratch.  The sun sparkled in the river.  The sails, after yesterday’s rain, were loosened to dry, and were white as if it had rained milk upon them instead of water.  Every thing looked cheerful and bright from Lawrence Newt’s window.  The lad saw with delight how much sunshine there was in the office.

“I don’t believe it would hurt my health to work here,” thought he.  Mr. Lawrence Newt rang a little bell.  Venables entered quietly.