a sick man, and his tenure of life is feeble; he has earned money, sir, in my service—­sixty pounds and more—­it is all his children have to look to—­all:  but for that, in the event of his death, they would be houseless beggars in the street.  And what have I done for that family, sir?  I have put that money out of the reach of Robert Gates, and placed it so that it shall be a blessing to his family at his death.  Every farthing is invested in shares in this office; and Robert Gates, my lodge-porter, is a holder of three shares in the West Diddlesex Association, and, in that capacity, your master and mine.  Do you think I want to cheat Gates?”

“Oh, sir!” says I.

“To cheat that poor helpless man, and those tender innocent children!—­you can’t think so, sir; I should be a disgrace to human nature if I did.  But what boots all my energy and perseverance?  What though I place my friends’ money, my family’s money, my own money—­my hopes, wishes, desires, ambitions—­all upon this enterprise?  You young men will not do so.  You, whom I treat with love and confidence as my children, make no return to me.  When I toil, you remain still; when I struggle, you look on.  Say the word at once,—­you doubt me!  O heavens, that this should be the reward of all my care and love for you!”

Here Mr. Brough was so affected that he actually burst into tears, and I confess I saw in its true light the negligence of which I had been guilty.

“Sir,” says I, “I am very—­very sorry:  it was a matter of delicacy, rather than otherwise, which induced me not to speak to my aunt about the West Diddlesex.”

“Delicacy, my dear dear boy—­as if there can be any delicacy about making your aunt’s fortune!  Say indifference to me, say ingratitude, say folly,—­but don’t say delicacy—­no, no, not delicacy.  Be honest, my boy, and call things by their right names—­always do.”

“It was folly and ingratitude, Mr. Brough,” says I:  “I see it all now; and I’ll write to my aunt this very post.”

“You had better do no such thing,” says Brough, bitterly:  “the stocks are at ninety, and Mrs. Hoggarty can get three per cent. for her money.”

“I will write, sir,—­upon my word and honour, I will write.”

“Well, as your honour is passed, you must, I suppose; for never break your word—­no, not in a trifle, Titmarsh.  Send me up the letter when you have done, and I’ll frank it—­upon my word and honour I will,” says Mr. Brough, laughing, and holding out his hand to me.

I took it, and he pressed mine very kindly—­“You may as well sit down here,” says he, as he kept hold of it; “there is plenty of paper.”

And so I sat down and mended a beautiful pen, and began and wrote, “Independent West Diddlesex Association, June 1822,” and “My dear Aunt,” in the best manner possible.  Then I paused a little, thinking what I should next say; for I have always found that difficulty about letters.  The date and My dear So-and-so one writes off immediately—­it is the next part which is hard; and I put my pen in my mouth, flung myself back in my chair, and began to think about it.