are all out at service—­let us hope, in kind families—­her sons are dull, ignorant men; her home is solitary and forlorn; she can not read much, nor does she want to; she is coughing her life away, and succeeds in selling apples enough to pay her rent and buy food for her old man and herself.  She told me yesterday that she was a most fortunate woman.  What does the word mean?  I give it up.”

The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table and desk and chair of which was written Prosperity as plainly as the name of Lawrence Newt upon the little tin sign by the door.  Except for the singular magnetism of the merchant’s presence, which dissipated such a suggestion as rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in his heart.

“How easy ’tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!”

The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was thinking.  As the eyes of the younger involuntarily glanced about the office and presently returned to the merchant, they found the merchant’s gazing so keenly that they seemed to be mere windows through which his soul was looking.  But the keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness as Lawrence Newt said,

“You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I know nothing about it.  You make a great mistake.  No man, even in jest, can talk well of what he doesn’t understand.  So don’t misunderstand me.  I am rich, but I am not fortunate.”

He said it in the same tone as before.

“If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you think yourself fortunate?” asked Mr. Newt.

“Why, yes, Sir.  A man can’t expect to have every thing precisely as he wants it,” replied the boy.

“My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better than no bread.  True—­so am I. But never make the mistake of supposing a half to be the whole.  Content is a good thing.  When the man sent for cake, and said, ‘John, if you can’t get cake, get smelts,’ he did wisely.  But smelts are not cake for all that.  What’s your name?” asked Mr. Newt, abruptly.

“Gabriel Bennet,” replied the boy.

“Bennet—­Bennet—­what Bennet?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer.  He only said: 

“Well, my son, you do wisely to say at once you don’t know, instead of going back to somebody a few centuries ago, of whose father you have to make the same answer.  The Newts, however, you must be aware, are a very old family.”  The merchant smiled.  “They came into England with the Normans; but who they came into Normandy with I don’t know.  Do you?”

Gabriel laughed, with a pleasant feeling of confidence in his companion.

“Have you been at school in the city?” asked the merchant.

Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray’s.

“Oh ho! then you know my nephew Abel?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Gabriel, coloring.