"It is a winter day in a great city—there are buildings an' crowds an' busy streets an' sleet'in the bitter wind. I am there,—an' me path is one o' many crossing each other like—well, sor, like lines on a slate, if thou were to make ten thousand o' them an' both eyes shut. I am walking slowly, an' lo! there is the banker. I meet him face to face—an ill-clad, haggard, cold, forgotten creature. I speak to him.
"'The blessed Lord have mercy on thee,' I said.
"'For meeting thee?' said the poor man. 'What is thy name?'
"'Roderick Darrel.'
"'An' I,' said he, sadly, 'am one o' the lost in hell. Art thou the devil?'
"'Nay, this hand o' mine hath opened thy door an' blacked thy boots for thee often,' said I. 'Dost thou not remember?'
"'Dimly—it was a long time ago,' he answered.
"We said more, sor, but that is no part o' the story. Very well! I went with him to his lodgings,—a little cold room in a garret,—an' there alone with me he gave account of himself. He had shovelled, an' dug, an' lifted, an' run errands until his strength was low an' the weight of his hand a burden. What hope for him—what way to earn a living!
"'Have courage, man,' I said to him. 'Thou shalt learn to mend clocks. It's light an' decent work, an' one may live by it an' see much o' the world.'
"There was an old clock, sor, in a heap o' rubbish that lay in a corner. I took it apart, and soon he saw the office of each wheel an' pinion an' the infirmity that stopped them an' the surgery to make them sound. I tarried long in the great city, an' every evening we were together in the little room. I bought him a kit o' tools an' some brass, an' we would shatter the clockworks an' build them up again until he had skill, sor, to make or mend.