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.
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