ound the
slate, "_Doctor Macmichael's Willie, The Ruins, Priory Leas_."

Then out came his knife. But it was a long job, for Willie was not one
of those slovenly boys that _scamp_ their work. Such boys are nothing
but soft, pulpy creatures, who, when they grow to be men, will be too
soft for any of the hard work of the world. They will be fit only for
buffers, to keep the working men from breaking their heads against each
other in their eagerness. But the carving was at length finished,
and gave much satisfaction--first to Willie himself, because it was
finished; next, to Alexander Spelman, Priory Leas, because, being a
generous-minded boy, he admired Willie's new and superior work; third,
to Mr and Mrs Macmichael, because they saw in it, not the boy's faculty
merely, but his love to his father as well; for the recognition of a
right over us is one of the sweetest forms love can take. "_I am yours_"
is the best and greatest thing one can say, if to the right person.

It led to a strong friendship between him and Spelman, and to his going
often to the workshop of the elder Spelman, the carpenter.

He was a solemn, long-faced, and long-legged man, with reddish hair and
pale complexion, who seldom or ever smiled, and at the bench always
looked as if he were standing on a stool, he stooped so immoderately. A
greater contrast than that between him and the shoemaker could hardly
have been found, except in this, that the carpenter also looked sickly.
He was in perfect health, however, only oppressed with the cares of his
family, and the sickness of his wife, who was a constant invalid, with
more children her husband thought than she could well manage, or he well
provide for. But if he had thought less about it he would have got on
better. He worked hard, but little fancied how many fewer strokes of
his plane he made in an hour just because he was brooding over his
difficulties, and imagining what would be the consequences if this or
that misfortune were to befall him--of which he himself sought and
secured the shadow beforehand, to darken and hinder the labour which
might prevent its arrival. But he was a good man nevertheless, for his
greatest bugbear was debt. If he could only pay off every penny he owed
in the world, and if only his wife were so far better as to enjoy life a
little, he would, he thought, be perfectly happy. His wife, however, was
tolerably happy, notwithstanding her weak health, and certainly enjoyed
life