And Roger proved what a sound-hearted, honest young fellow he was, for he listened to all these truths, laid them to heart, and loved his friend all the better for telling them.
One day, not very long after Jack's arrival, he was sitting in the shop while Roger wrote some business letters in the parlour behind it. A man came quickly along the street and turned into the shop, as if in haste. He did not look up, but said, "Is this Roger Read's shop?"
"Yes, I'll call him. Roger, you're wanted."
Roger came out. The visitor was Tom Avery.
"Well, Roger," he said, still keeping his eyes cast down, and speaking in a sulky, injured tone, "our job is done, and I'm off to-morrow: I just thought I'd look in and ask you, did you ever hear—but, indeed, I suppose you never inquired—you thought better of it, no doubt, when you took time to consider."
"You mean about Jack? No, I didn't, I was only too glad of the chance to show him a little gratitude. Jack—here's our old friend, Mr. Avery."
Avery looked up now, and his face grew crimson. Jack held out his hand at once, saying,—
"I didn't know ye, Avery! And how's Bess, and the young ones?"
"They're well, thank ye. Jack, I'm glad to see you here—I'm main glad you're so comfortable and well off. I always knew Roger was a good fellow—and I hope, Jack—"
"Well?" said Roger. "Go a-head—what do you hope?"