“Yes; he has been very kind, and has taken a great deal of pains with me.”
“And you think you are fit to undertake such a place as mine?”
“I think I am, and I should try to give satisfaction; for I am very anxious indeed to earn my own living.”
“And who is to give you a character?”
“Mr. Grindlay will; he has known me all my life.”
During the conversation of which the above is an abridgement, I found that my feelings were veering round to a more favorable quarter for the candidate. Young as he was, I thought I could discern that he had suffered, and that he was anxious to diminish, or repair, his ill fortunes by industry and good conduct. There was a moment, too, in which I fancied I saw the clew to his sorrows. It was when I said, “You are not married, I presume?”
“No,” said he.
“Because,” I added, “my house is not large, and visitors below are inconvenient.”
“I have nobody in the world belonging to me but one sister. And the only friend I have is Mr. Grindlay,” he replied, with some eagerness, as if to put a period to further inquiries in that direction, while he visibly changed color. Feeling sure there was some painful family history behind, I said no more, but that I would see Mr. Grindlay, if he would call on the following day.
“By-the-by,” I rejoined, as the young man was leaving, the room, “we said nothing about wages; what do you expect?”