Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply.  Then still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of grunting ejaculation—­“Humph! so your mother gets her living by mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be made.  Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell her she is a fool for her pains.  Here are your indentures, and here’s the salary that’s due to you.  Now you may go to bed.”

As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, and the money from his purse.  Stephen felt a choking sensation in his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he could speak, his master left the room.  Disappointed and heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to get up in the morning before he could fall asleep.  On the Tuesday, when the day’s work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of clothes;—­should he say good-bye to his master?  Yes; he would not be ungracious at the last.  He opened the door of the back parlour, and stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand.  His master was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.

“I am going, sir, good-bye,” said Stephen.

“Good-bye, sir,” returned his master, without, looking at him.  And so they parted.

The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for words.  Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most.  Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment.  Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form plans for the future—­how he should go about to seek for another situation, &c.  Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest.  Stephen had pressed his mother’s hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, “Never mind, mother, it’ll all be right yet,” when they were startled by a loud rap at the door.

“Who’s there?” shouted Stephen.

“A letter for you,” was the reply.

Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door.  A letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared.  Surprised, Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying.  He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very like his master’s.  Mary’s look of wonder became suddenly brightened by a flash of hope; she could not read writing—­Stephen must read it for her.  He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the first thing he saw—­he examined it—­it was actually a ten pound Bank of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother’s; what could this mean?  But there was a little note which would perhaps explain.  Stephen’s fingers trembled sadly as he opened it.  There were not many words, but they were to the purpose.  Stephen read them to himself before he read them aloud.  And as he was reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn!  But what was the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased?  Mary could not understand it.