work, and if you have anything to complain of, come to me."
Murdoch took the paper, and held it hesitatingly.
"I—perhaps I ought not to have asked for it to-day," he said, nervously. "I'm not a business man, and I didn't think of it. I came in because I saw you. I'm going to London to-morrow, and shall not be back for a week."
"That's all right," said Haworth. "Come then."
He was not sorry to see his visitor turn away, after uttering a few simple words of thanks. It would be a relief to see the door close after him. But when it had closed, to his discomfiture it opened again. The thin, poorly clad figure reappeared.
"I heard in the town," said the man, his cheek flushing faintly, "of what has happened here to-day. Twenty years have brought you better luck than thirty have brought me."
"Yes," answered Haworth, "my luck's been good enough, as luck goes."
"It seems almost a folly"—falling into the meditative tone—"for me to wish you good luck in the future." And then, pulling himself together again as before: "it is a folly; but I wish it, nevertheless. Good luck to you!"
The door closed, and he was gone.
