told me I was able to give him a pretty good account of you, which I did, Master Guy, though I felt that while I was doing it I was only helping you to leave me. And though the gentleman, as I said before, didn't make anything like a promise, I feel sure in my own mind-I say, in my own mind-that you'll get a situation."

"But what makes you so sure of it in your own mind?" inquired Guy.

"Because, my dear, in this world it's always so. As I did'nt much care about your getting it—you see I tell you the truth-because I don't want to part with you yet, you're sure to have it. Now, if I had wanted very much, you know, to get rid of you, and was doing all I could to try and get you away, I might try and try for everlasting, and I shouldn't succeed. It is such a perverse world."

"Yes, mother," said Guy, "perhaps you're right." But added slyly, "Though it can't be a perverse world, you know, for everybody, else no one would ever get what he wanted."

"Ah, well," observed Mrs Warkup, with a sigh, without further noticing Guy's remark, "we shall see; and, anyhow, I suppose it's all for the best."

And in chat of this kind, with the occasional in terruptions of business, the evening passed away, and night came.

1

CHAPTER XIII.

MR BINDWELL · -THE APPROVALA MISHAP -NEWS

FROM HOME.

UNCTUAL to the appointed hour, Guy Rivers at ten o'clock entered the shop of Mr Bindwell, bookseller and stationer of Fleet Street. Mr Bindwell being at that time alone in the office, the youth was directed into it at once by the lad who had spoken to him the previous morning, and who eyed him somewhat superciliously as Guy, cap in hand, made his way to the glazed door.

The youth entered, in obedience to an abrupt "Come in," given in reply to his modest tap, and on his doing so, found himself in front of the red face and white hair, and intently stared at by a pair of grey eyes, which glistened over the brim of the gold spectacles.

Mr Bindwell was seated on a high stool at a mahogany desk nearly black with age, and having its level top quite encrusted with the drops of ink which had dried upon each other, apparently for years, in successive layers.

Sundry office books were placed on dingy brass bars, screwed into the desk itself and raised about

two feet above it; files of papers of various kinds were hanging from different parts of this apparatus ; and the walls were so covered with a tapestry of notices, placards, bills, tables, and what not, that it was difficult to decide, at a first glance, whether they had been painted, papered, or left standing in their original plaster.

The whole of this strange, and certainly untidy decoration, was coated with dust to a considerable thickness. If the matter had been studied, the curious inquirer might have guessed, from the degree and intensity of the dirt, the number of years each separate bill or paper had held its place; for some were of the densest hue; others presented a less dark and grimy appearance; while a few were comparatively clean, as though they had been raised but recently to their present elevation. Among the latter, stood prominently out the "Stationers' Almanack," which, being only half-a-year or so old, looked singularly out of place, with its nearly white surface, and steel engraving of some public ceremony at the top.

There was room for three other persons at the desk where Mr Bindwell sat, but, as before observed, he was just then quite alone.

"So;" he said, after looking intently at Guy for a good minute, without speaking, "you are punctual to your time. That's good. What can you do?”

This question was put so abruptly after the former remark, that Guy, at the moment, was puzzled to

answer it. Recovering himself, however, as fast as he could, he said that he could write, and cypher, and

"Can you write a decent hand?" interrupted Mr Bindwell, who immediately afterwards added, "Here! take this sheet of paper; sit down on the stool opposite, and copy me out that Invoice."

"In

Guy took the sheet of paper and the other written document which Mr Bindwell had called an voice;"―he did his best to remember the name, and secretly wrote it down so as not to forget it ;then seating himself where he was directed, he applied his whole attention to the making a fair and proper copy.

Before he had done it, the clerk, Mr Ruggles by name, and who was the person who had waited on Mrs Warkup the evening before, came in.

After making some remark to his principal he sat down beside Guy, and gave him a quiet little nod of recognition, in reply to a respectful one of the former. He evidently thought well of the youth's performance, for his face bore a look of approval, as he passed it over, when done, for Mr Bindwell's inspection.

That gentleman, having cast his eye over it, observed to Mr Ruggles aloud, and with as much indifference as if Guy were out of hearing: "The boy won't write a bad hand by and by, though it's stiff and formal enough now." Then turning round to our young friend, he said, “Can you spell, my lad, correctly?"

"I think so, sir," answered Guy.

"When I was

at school, I used to have a good place in the class."

“Hm! ha! hm!" remarked Mr Bindwell, which speech, though unintelligible to the youth, evidently meant a good deal.

After a pause, during which the bookseller and his clerk looked at each other, and then at Guy, whose heart meanwhile went pit-a-pat, with a degree of force that was perfectly audible to himself, for he felt that he was on the verge of his fate, Mr Bindwell said:

"I think, Ruggles, we may take him on trial ?” "Yes, sir," answered the clerk, with an affirmative kind of nod, “I think so."

"So be it then," said the bookseller, who directly afterwards added, turning to Guy: "You may come here on. say Thursday morning at ten o'clock. Bring your things with you. And we'll give you a month's trial. If you suit, we'll talk about the salary we can allow you to start with. Meanwhile you'll have your board and lodging free, and an opportunity, if you're sharp, of learning something of business. Good morning."

"Good morning, sir," said Guy, with a face which, from the excitement he felt, almost matched in redness that of Mr Bindwell himself; "good morning, sir."

Whereupon, he took up his cap and backed out

of the office with a bow.

There were no customers in the shop as the youth