Mr. Spicer insisted on lending him the small sum he needed. An hour or two
later they were at St. Pancras Station, and before sunset Goldthorpe had
found harbourage under his mother's roof. There he lay ill for more than a
month, and convalescent for as long again. His doctor declared that he must
have been living in some very unhealthy place, but the young man preferred
to explain his illness by overwork. It seemed to him sheer ingratitude to
throw blame on Mr. Spicer's house, where he had been so contented and
worked so well until the hot days of latter August. Mr. Spicer himself
wrote kind and odd little letters, giving an account of the garden, and
earnestly hoping that his literary friend would be back in London to taste
the Jerusalem artichokes. But Christmas came and went, and Goldthorpe was
still at his mother's house.

Meanwhile the manuscript had gone from publisher to publisher, and at
length, on a day in January--date ever memorable in Goldthorpe's
life--there arrived a short letter in which a certain firm dryly intimated
their approval of the story offered them, and their willingness to purchase
the copyright for a sum of fifty pounds. The next morning the triumphant
author travelled to London. For two or three days a violent gale had been
blowing, with much damage throughout the country; on his journey Goldthorpe
saw many great trees lying prostrate, beaten, as though scornfully, by the
cold rain which now descended in torrents. Arrived in town, he went to the
house where he had lodged in the time of comparative prosperity, and there
was lucky enough to find his old rooms vacant. On the morrow he called upon
the gracious publishers, and after that, under a sky now become more
gentle, he took his way towards the abode of Mr. Spicer.

Eager to communicate the joyous news, glad in the prospect of seeing his
simple-hearted friend, he went at a great pace up the ascending road. There
were the three houses, looking drearier than ever in a faint gleam of