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His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from Stephen’s agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen.

Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of grunting ejaculation–“Humph! so your mother gets her living by mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and here’s the salary that’s due to you. Now you may go to bed.”

As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, when the day’s work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of clothes;–should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.

“I am going, sir, good-bye,” said Stephen.

“Good-bye, sir,” returned his master, without, looking at him. And so they parted.

The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form plans for the future–how he should go about to seek for another situation, etc. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen had pressed his mother’s hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, “Never mind, mother, it’ll all be right yet,” when they were startled by a loud rap at the door.

“Who’s there?” shouted Stephen.

“A letter for you,” was the reply.

Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very like his master’s. Mary’s look of wonder became suddenly brightened by a flash of hope; she could not read writing–Stephen must read it for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the first thing he saw–he examined it–it was actually a ten pound Bank of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother’s; what could this mean? But there was a little note which would perhaps explain. Stephen’s fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not understand it.

“Do read up, Stephen,” she exclaimed.

With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to keep from crying, Stephen read,

“MADAM–Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants; in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don’t see that I can do well without him. But I don’t want him back if he would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won’t repent. I’ve no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am better than I was, and I may be better still. I’ve a queer way of doing things, but it is my way, and can’t be helped. Tell him I’ll be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours,

“J. W.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; “I always said so! I knew you would get on!”

Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any reason to repent. He got on even beyond his mother’s most soaring hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very proud and a very happy woman.