"Anything you please, sir," was the respectful reply.

"Well, George," resumed Mr. Moyese, "I have made up my mind to make you a
present of----" here he paused and looked steadily at him for a few
seconds; and then gravely handing him the papers, concluded, "of yourself,
George! Now mind and don't throw my present away, my boy." George stood
for some moments looking in a bewildered manner, first at his master, then
at the papers. At last the reality of his good fortune broke fully upon
him, and he sank into a chair, and unable to say more than: "God bless you,
Mr. Moyese!" burst into tears.

"Now you are a pretty fellow," said the old man, sobbing himself, "it's
nothing to cry about--get home as fast as you can, you stupid cry-baby, and
mind you are here early in the morning, sir, for I intend to pay you five
hundred dollars a-year, and I mean you to earn it," and thus speaking he
bustled out of the room, followed by George's repeated "God bless you!"
That "God bless you" played about his ears at night, and soothed him to
sleep; in dreams he saw it written in diamond letters on a golden crown,
held towards him by a hand outstretched from the azure above. He fancied
the birds sang it to him in his morning walk, and that he heard it in the
ripple of the little stream that flowed at the foot of his garden. So he
could afford to smile when his relatives talked about his mistaken
generosity, and could take refuge in that fervent "God bless you!"

Six years after this event Mr. Moyese died, leaving George a sufficient
legacy to enable him to commence business on his own account. As soon as he
had arranged his affairs, he started for his old home, to endeavour to gain
by personal exertions what he had been unable to learn through the agency
of others--a knowledge of the fate of his mother. He ascertained that she
had been sold and re-sold, and had finally died in New Orleans, not more