Mr. Huntley’s feelings glowed within him. None, more than he, knew the value of silent industry—the worth of those who patiently practise it. His heart went out to Hamish. “I suppose I must recommend you to Bartlett’s post, after all,” said he, affecting to speak carelessly, his eye betraying something very different.
“Is it not gone?” asked Hamish.
“No, it is not gone. And the appointment rests with me. How would you like it?”
“Nay,” said Hamish, half mockingly: “the question is, should I be honest enough for it?”
Mr. Huntley shook his fist at him. “If you ever bring that reproach up to me again, I’ll—I’ll—You had better keep friends with me, you know, sir, on other scores.”
Hamish laughed. “I should like the post very much indeed, sir.”
“And the house also, I suppose, you would make no objection to?” nodded Mr. Huntley.
“None in the world. I must work away, though, if it is ever to be furnished.”
“How can you tell but that some good spirit might furnish it for you?” cried Mr. Huntley, quaintly.
They were interrupted before anything more was said. Ellen, who had been out with her aunt, came running in, in excitement. “Oh, papa! such happy news! Charles Channing is found, and—”