The Rev. Mr. Yorke, in his surplice and hood, stood in his stall in the cathedral. His countenance was stern, absorbed; as that of a man who is not altogether at peace with himself. Let us hope that he was absorbed in the sacred service in which he was taking a part: but we all know, to our cost, that the spirit will wander at these times, and worldly thoughts obtrude themselves. The greatest divine that the Church can boast, is not always free from them.

Not an official part in the service was Mr. Yorke taking, that afternoon; the duty was being performed by the head-master, whose week it was to take it. Very few people were at service, and still less of the clergy; the dean was present, but not one of the chapter.

Arthur Channing sat in his place at the organ. Arthur’s thoughts, too, were wandering; and—you know it is of no use to make people out to be better than they are—wandering to things especially mundane. Arthur had not ceased to look out for something to do, to replace the weekly funds lost when he left Mr. Galloway’s. He had not yet been successful: employment is more easily sought than found, especially by one lying under doubt, as he was. But he had now heard of something which he hoped he might gain.

Jenkins, saying nothing to Roland Yorke, or to any one else, had hurried to Mr. Channing’s house that day between one and two o’clock; and hurrying there and back had probably caused that temporary increase of cough, which you heard of a chapter or two back. Jenkins’s errand was to inform Arthur that Dove and Dove (solicitors in the town, who were by no means so dove-like as their name) required a temporary clerk, and he thought Arthur might suit them. Arthur had asked Jenkins to keep a look-out for him.

“Is one of their clerks leaving?” Arthur inquired.

“One of them met with an accident last night up at the railway-station,” replied Jenkins. “Did you not hear of it, sir?”

“I heard of that. I did not know who was hurt. He was trying to cross the line, was he not?”

“Yes, sir. It was Marston. He had been out with some friends, and had taken, it is thought, more than was good for him. A porter pulled him back, but Marston fell, and the engine crushed his foot. He will be laid up two months, the doctor says, and Dove and Dove are looking out for some one to fill his place for the time. If you would like to take it, sir, you could be looking out for something else while you are there. You would more readily get the two hours’ daily leave of absence from a place like that, where they keep three or four clerks, than you would from where they keep only one.”

“If I like to take it!” repeated Arthur. “Will they like to take me? That’s the question. Thank you, Jenkins; I’ll see about it at once.”

He was not able to do so immediately after Jenkins left; for Dove and Dove’s offices were situated at the other end of the town, and he might not be back in time for service. So he waited and went first to college, and sat, I say, in his place at the organ, his thoughts filled, in spite of himself, with the new project.

The service came to an end: it had seemed long to Arthur—so prone are we to estimate time by our own feelings—and his voluntary, afterwards, was played a shade faster than usual. Then he left the cathedral by the front entrance, and hastened to the office of Dove and Dove.

Arthur had had many a rebuff of late, when bent on a similar application, and his experience taught him that it was best, if possible, to see the principals: not to subject himself to the careless indifference or to the insolence of a clerk. Two young men were writing at a desk when he entered. “Can I see Mr. Dove?” he inquired.

The elder of the writers scrutinized him through the railings of the desk. “Which of them?” asked he.

“Either,” replied Arthur. “Mr. Dove, or Mr. Alfred Dove. It does not matter.”

“Mr. Dove’s out, and Mr. Alfred Dove’s not at home,” was the response. “You’ll have to wait, or to call again.”

He preferred to wait: and in a very few minutes Mr. Dove came in. Arthur was taken into a small room, so full of papers that it seemed difficult to turn in it, and there he stated his business.

“You are a son of Mr. Channing’s, I believe,” said Mr. Dove. He spoke morosely, coarsely; and he had a morose, coarse countenance—a sure index of the mind, in him, as in others. “Was it you who figured in the proceedings at the Guildhall some few weeks ago?”

You may judge whether the remark called up the blood to Arthur’s face. He suppressed his mortification, and spoke bravely.

“It was myself, sir. I was not guilty. My employment in your office would be the copying of deeds solely, I presume; that would afford me little temptation to be dishonest, even were I inclined to be so.”

Had any one paid Arthur in gold to keep in that little bit of sarcasm, he could not have done so. Mr. Dove caught up the idea that the words were uttered in sarcasm, and scowled fitfully.

“Marston was worth twenty-five shillings a week to us: and gained it. You would not be worth half as much.”

“You do not know what I should be worth, sir, unless you tried me. I am a quick and correct copyist; but I should not expect to receive as much as an ordinary clerk, on account of having to attend the cathedral for morning and afternoon service. Wherever I go, I must have that privilege allowed me.”

“Then I don’t think you’ll get it with us. But look here, young Channing, it is my brother who undertakes the engaging and management of the clerks—you can speak to him.”

“Can I see him this afternoon, sir?”

“He’ll be in presently. Of course, we could not admit you into our office unless some one became security. You must be aware of that.”

The words seemed like a checkmate to Arthur. He stopped in hesitation. “Is it usual, sir?”

“Usual—no! But it is necessary in your case”

There was a coarse, pointed stress upon the “your,” natural to the man. Arthur turned away. For a moment he felt that to Dove and Dove’s he could not and would not go; every feeling within him rebelled against it. Presently the rebellion calmed down, and he began to think about the security.

It would be of little use, he was sure, to apply to Mr. Alfred Dove—who was a shade coarser than Mr. Dove, if anything—unless prepared to say that security could be given. His father’s he thought he might command: but he was not sure of that, under present circumstances, without first speaking to Hamish. He turned his steps to Guild Street, his unhappy position pressing with unusual weight upon his feelings.

“Can I see my brother?” he inquired of the clerks in the office.

“He has some gentlemen with him just now, sir. I dare say you can go in.”

There was nothing much amiss in the words; but in the tone there was. It was indicative of slight, of contempt. It was the first time Arthur had been there since the suspicion had fallen on him, and they seemed to stare at him as if he had been a hyena; not a respectable hyena either.

He entered Hamish’s room. Hamish was talking with two gentlemen, strangers to Arthur, but they were on the point of leaving. Arthur stood away against the wainscoting by the corner table, waiting until they were gone, his attitude, his countenance, his whole appearance indicative of depression and sadness.

Hamish closed the door and turned to him. He laid his hand kindly upon his shoulder; his voice was expressive of the kindest sympathy. “So you have found your way here once more, Arthur! I thought you were never coming again. What can I do for you, lad?”

“I have been to Dove and Dove’s. They are in want of a clerk. I think perhaps they would take me; but, Hamish, they want security.”

“Dove and Dove’s,” repeated Hamish. “Nice gentlemen, both of them!” he added, in his half-pleasant, half-sarcastic manner. “Arthur, boy, I’d not be under Dove and Dove if they offered me a gold nugget a day, as weighty as the Queen’s crown. You must not go there.”

“They are not agreeable men; I know that; they are not men who are liked in Helstonleigh, but what difference will that make to me? So long as I turn out their parchments properly engrossed, that is all I need care for.”

“What has happened? Why are you looking so sad?” reiterated Hamish, who could not fail to perceive that there was some strange grief at work.

“Is my life so sunny just now, that I can always be as bright as you?” retorted Arthur—for Hamish’s undimmed gaiety did sometimes jar upon his wearied spirit. “I shall go to Dove and Dove’s if they will take me,” he added, resolutely. “Will you answer for me, Hamish, in my father’s name?”

“What amount of security do they require?” asked Hamish. And it was a very proper, a very natural question; but even that grated on Arthur’s nerves.

“Are you afraid of me?” he rejoined. “Or do you fear my father would be?”

“I dare s............