sometimes lose heart and hope." "Hope of what?" asked my uncle.
"Are you not content to be a servant? Must you rise in the world,
as the saying is?" The groom shrank a little at that abrupt
question. "If I had relations to care for me and help me along
the hard ways of life," he said, "I might be satisfied, sir, to
remain as I am. As it is, I have no one to think about but
myself--and I am foolish enough sometimes to look beyond myself."

So far, I had kept silence; but I could no longer resist giving
him a word of encouragement--his confession was so sadly and so
patiently made. "You speak too harshly of yourself," I said; "the
best and greatest men have begun like you by looking beyond
themselves." For a moment our eyes met. I admired the poor lonely
fellow trying so modestly and so bravely to teach himself--and I
did not care to conceal it. He was the first to look away; some
suppressed emotion turned him deadly pale. Was I the cause of it?
I felt myself tremble as that bold question came into my mind.
The General, with one sharp glance at me, diverted the talk (not
very delicately, as I thought) to the misfortune of Michael's
birth.

"I have heard of your being deserted in your infancy by some
woman unknown," he said. "What has become of the things you were
wrapped in, and the letter that was found on you? They might lead
to a discovery, one of these days." The groom smiled. "The last
master I served thought of it as you do, Sir. He was so good as
to write to the gentleman who was first burdened with the care of
me-- and the things were sent to me in return."

He took up an unlocked leather bag, which opened by touching a