"And your employment? Are you in any of the shops here?"
"No; at least, yes. I keep a shop. I'm a fishmonger," answered Roger with some pride.
Mr. Aylmer at first thought that this was meant as a joke, and was not sure that he liked it. But Roger looked so quiet and grave that he gave up that suspicion, and said gravely,—
"Were you born a fishmonger?"
"Why, no, sir!" Roger said, laughing. "What do you mean?"
"You are so young to be in trade on your own account, that I want to know if it really is so, and how it came about."
"I have a shop in Cecil Street, and there's no one but myself. But I was born down in Devonshire, and my grandfather, Nicholas Read, was gamekeeper at Sir Carew Shafton's place near Bideford town."
Mr. Aylmer looked again at him, and said, "What was the Vicar's name?"
"The Reverend George Aylmer, sir."
"And I am his son, and you are the boy about whom Sir Carew was so unhappy, because, when your poor father's death became known to him, he could not find you. One of my brothers, who is in London, is on the look-out for you still, for all I know. I thought there was a touch of old Devon in your voice. Why did you not write to Sir Carew?"