SIMEON Tetlow glanced up sharply. The door had opened without a sound. “You ’ve come. Umph!” He shoved the pile of letters from him.  
“Sit down.”
 
The air was full of sunshine. Even in the dingy office it glinted and shone.
 
Across its radiance Simeon studied the dull face. “Well!”
 
The eyes of the boy met his, half-wistfully, it seemed. “She needs me, sir,” he said. Simeon stirred uneasily. “Seen Dr. Blake?”
 
“Yes, sir. He says he cannot help her.”
 
“Umph!” Simeon shifted again in his chair. His eye dropped to the pile of papers beside him.
 
The boy’s hands had reached out to them. Almost instinctively the fingers were threading their way among them, sorting and arranging in neat piles.
 
Simeon watched the fingers jealously. It was as if he might spring upon them and fasten them there forever. The young man’s eyes traveled about the room, noting signs of disorder. “I can stay today,” he said slowly. He hesitated. “I can stay a week, sir, if you want me.”
 
“I don’t want you a week.” The man was looking at him savagely. “You must bring them here!” he said.
 
“Here!” in doubt.
 
The man nodded. “They can live here as well as anywhere!”
 
The boy pondered it a minute. He shook his head slowly.
 
“They would n’t be happy,” he said. “She has friends there, in Bridgewater—people she’s known ever since she was a little girl—and father has his work. He ’s an old man. It would n’t be easy for him to get work here. He has an easy job—”
 
“Work enough here,” growled Simeon. He was studying the boy’s face keenly. Was it possible the fellow was making capital of all this? He threw off the thought. “Work enough here,” he repeated.
 
John considered it again. He looked up. The lamps threw their clear light into the future. “I ’d thought of that, sir,” he said slowly, “and I ’ve talked about it—a little. But I saw it hurt them. So I dropped it.”
 
“You ’re missing the chance of a lifetime,” said Simeon. “There are men working below that’d give ten years off their life to get what you’ve got without trying.”
 
The boy’s quiet eye met his.
 
“Oh, you ’ve tried—you’ve tried. I don’t mean that,” he said testily. “But it’s a case of fitness—the chance of a lifetime,” he repeated significantly.
 
The boy looked at him. “I know it, sir. I’ve thought about it a long time. It ’s hard to do. But, you see, we never have but one father and mother.”
 
The other met it, blinking. “Umph!”
 
“I shall try to get something at the Bridgewater office. I thought perhaps you would recommend me if there was a vacancy.”
 
“There is n’t any,” said Simeon shortly—almost with relief.
 
“The second shipping-clerk left week before last.”
 
“You don’t want that?”
 
“I think I do.”
 
Simeon turned vaguely toward the pigeonholes. The boy’s quick eye was before him. “This is the one, sir.”
 
Simeon smiled grimly. He drew out a blank from its place and filled it in. “You won’t like it,” he said, holding the pen in his teeth while he reached for the blotter. “It ’s heavy lifting, and Simpson ’s no angel to work under. No chance to rise, either.” He was glaring at the boy, a kind of desperate affection growing in his eyes..
 
The boy returned the look mistily. “You make it a little hard, sir. I wish I could stay.” He half held out his hand and drew it back.
 
Simeon ignored it. He had taken down a ledger and picked a letter from the pile before him. The interview was over. The President of the “R. and Q.” Railroad was not hanging on anybody’s neck.
 
“It ’s the other ledger, sir,” said John quickly, “the farther one.” He reached over and laid it deftly before his employer.
 
Simeon pushed it from him savagely. “Go to the devil!” he said.
 
The boy went, shutting the door quietly behind him.