f for some visible cause of his state of mind: "what is the matter?"

"My good George Vendale," returned the wine-merchant, giving his hand
with an appealing look, rather as if he wanted help to get over some
obstacle, than as if he gave it in welcome or salutation: "my good George
Vendale, so much is the matter, that I shall never be myself again. It
is impossible that I can ever be myself again. For, in fact, I am not
myself."

The new partner, a brown-cheeked handsome fellow, of about his own age,
with a quick determined eye and an impulsive manner, retorted with
natural astonishment: "Not yourself?"

"Not what I supposed myself to be," said Wilding.

"What, in the name of wonder, _did_ you suppose yourself to be that you
are not?" was the rejoinder, delivered with a cheerful frankness,
inviting confidence from a more reticent man. "I may ask without
impertinence, now that we are partners."

"There again!" cried Wilding, leaning back in his chair, with a lost look
at the other. "Partners! I had no right to come into this business. It
was never meant for me. My mother never meant it should be mine. I
mean, his mother meant it should be his--if I mean anything--or if I am
anybody."

"Come, come," urged his partner, after a moment's pause, and taking
possession of him with that calm confidence which inspires a strong
nature when it honestly desires to aid a weak one. "Whatever has gone
wrong, has gone wrong through no fault of yours, I am very sure. I was
not in this counting-house with you, under the old _regime_, for three
years, to doubt you, Wilding. We were not younger men than we are,
together, for that. Let me begin our partnership by being a serviceable
partner, and setting right whatever is wrong. Has that letter anything
to do with it?"

"Hah!" said Wilding, with his hand to his temple. "There again! My
head! I was forgetting the coincidence. The Swiss postmark."

"At a second glance I see that the letter is unopened, so it is not very
likely to have much to do with the matter," said Vendale, with comforting
composure. "Is it for you, or for us?"

"For us," said Wilding.

"Suppose I open it and read it aloud, to get it out of our way?"

"Thank you, thank you."

"The letter is only from our champagne-making friends, the house at
Neuchatel. 'Dear Sir. We are in receipt of yours of the 28th ult.,
informing us that you have taken your Mr. Vendale into partnership,
whereon we beg