A noisy, scrambling, uncomfortable sort of home was that of the Yorkes; the boys sometimes contending one with another, Lady Augusta often quarrelling with all. The home of the Channings was ever full of love, calm, and peace. Can you guess where the difference lay?
On the morning when the college boys had gone up to crave holiday of the judges, and had not obtained it—at least not from the head-master—Arthur Channing proceeded, as usual, to Mr. Galloway’s, after breakfast. Seated at a desk, in his place, writing—he seemed to be ever seated there—was Mr. Jenkins. He lifted his head when Arthur entered, with a “Good morning, sir,” and then dropped it again over his copying.
“Good morning,” replied Arthur. And at that moment Mr. Galloway—his flaxen curls in full flow upon his head, something like rings—came forth from his private room. “Good morning, sir,” Arthur added, to his master.
Mr. Galloway nodded a reply to the salutation. “Have you seen anything of Yorke?” he asked. “I want that deed that he’s about finished as soon as possible.”
“He will not be an instant,” said Arthur. “I saw him coming up the street.”
Roland Yorke bustled in; a dark young man of twenty-one, with large but fine features, and a countenance expressive of indecision.
“Come, Mr. Yorke, you promised to be here early to-day. You know that deed is being waited for.”
“So I am early, sir,” returned Roland.
“Early! for you perhaps,” grunted Mr. Galloway. “Get to it at once.”
Roland Yorke unlocked a drawer, collected sundry parchments together, and sat down to his desk. He and Arthur had their places side by side. Mr. Galloway stood at a table, and began sorting some papers that were upon it.