The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table and desk and chair of which was written Prosperity as plainly as the name of Lawrence Newt upon the little tin sign by the door. Except for the singular magnetism of the merchant’s presence, which dissipated such a suggestion as rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in his heart.
“How easy ‘tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!”
The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was thinking. As the eyes of the younger involuntarily glanced about the office and presently returned to the merchant, they found the merchant’s gazing so keenly that they seemed to be mere windows through which his soul was looking. But the keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness as Lawrence Newt said,
“You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I know nothing about it. You make a great mistake. No man, even in jest, can talk well of what he doesn’t understand. So don’t misunderstand me. I am rich, but I am not fortunate.”
He said it in the same tone as before.
“If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you think yourself fortunate?” asked Mr. Newt.
“Why, yes, Sir. A man can’t expect to have every thing precisely as he wants it,” replied the boy.
“My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better than no bread. True—so am I. But never make the mistake of supposing a half to be the whole. Content is a good thing. When the man sent for cake, and said, ‘John, if you can’t get cake, get smelts,’ he did wisely. But smelts are not cake for all that. What’s your name?” asked Mr. Newt, abruptly.
“Gabriel Bennet,” replied the boy.
“Bennet—Bennet—what Bennet?”