There was a kind of subdued, snarling tone of vehemence in the utterance of these words by Learmont, that surprised Albert Seyton as much as the words themselves were unexpected. After a moment’s pause he replied,—
“Sir, I scarce know how to answer you. I am, it is true, poor, friendless, and an orphan; I have met with ingratitude when I should have met friendship; cold indifference instead of ardent sympathy; but, sir, I thank Heaven that poor, nearly destitute as I am, my heart is light as thistle-down in its innocence of wrong, and from my inmost soul do I look up to and acknowledge that Providence that watches over all. You have jested with me, sir.”
“In truth have I,” said Learmont; “it is my custom with a stranger, heed it not. When I want a moral, religious, and light-hearted secretary, you may be assured that I will send for you, young man.”
A pang of disappointment shot across the heart of Albert Seyton as Learmont spoke, and he replied sadly,—
“Farewell, sir, you will send for me in vain. This day, if unaccepted by you, I enter the ranks as a soldier.”
“Indeed, are you so hardly pressed?”
“Heaven knows I am indeed. For myself, sir, I care not, but in my fate is involved that of another.”
“What other?” said Learmont.
“Alas, sir, the tale is long, and its telling useless.”
“Young man,” said Learmont earnestly, “there is a matter in which I could give you good employment, but it is one requiring secresy, prudence, and deep caution.”