high standing. At last you seem to be coming fairly to the front; and
I cannot but reflect with delight and gratitude how very few youths of
your age occupy nearly two columns of press-matter all to themselves.
I only wish your dear mother had been here to read it over my shoulder;
but we will hope she shares my grateful emotion in a better place. Of
course I have sent a copy to your grandfather and uncle in Edinburgh;
so you can keep the one I enclose. This Jim Pinkerton seems a valuable
acquaintance; he has certainly great talent; and it is a good general
rule to keep in with pressmen."

I hope it will be set down to the right side of my account, but I had
no sooner read these words, so touchingly silly, than my anger against
Pinkerton was swallowed up in gratitude. Of all the circumstances of my
career, my birth, perhaps, excepted, not one had given my poor father so
profound a pleasure as this article in the _Sunday Herald_. What a fool,
then, was I, to be lamenting! when I had at last, and for once, and
at the cost of only a few blushes, paid back a fraction of my debt
of gratitude. So that, when I next met Pinkerton, I took things very
lightly; my father was pleased, and thought the letter very clever, I
told him; for my own part, I had no taste for publicity: thought the
public had no concern with the artist, only with his art; and though I
owned he had handled it with great consideration, I should take it as a
favour if he never did it again.

"There it is," he said despondingly. "I've hurt you. You can't deceive
me, Loudon. It's the want of tact, and it's incurable." He sat down, and
leaned his head upon his hand. "I had no advantages when I was young,
you see," he added.

"Not in the least, my dear fellow," said I. "Only the next time you wish
to do me a service, just speak about my work; leave my wretched person
out, and my still more wretched conversation; and above all," I added,
with an irrepressible shudder, "don't tell them how I said it! There's
that phrase, now: 'With a proud, glad smile.' Who cares whether I smiled
or not?"

"Oh, there now, Loudon, you're entirely wrong," he broke in. "That's
what the public likes; that's the merit of the thing, the literary
value. It's to call up the scene before them; it's to enable the
humblest citizen to enjoy that afternoon the same as I did. Think what
it would have been to me when I was tramping around with my tin-types to
find a column and a half of real,