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 his learning, your honour?" said honest Patrick, his feelings hurt by this coldness of manner; "or shall we come some other time?"

"I have no time to question him now," said the printer, "but if he can read and write—here, my boy, write your name on this leaf—Patrick Pan! hem—Pan, is it?"

"Yes, your honour," said the indignant Irishman, "and it was an honest man that bore it, and gived it to him, and I trust he'll never disgrace it."

"I trust so too," said the man. "He writes legibly, and if you have nothing better to do with him, he may have his food and clothing for the few errands he can do."

"And Patrick, dear," said O'Brien, "will you be liking this employment, sure my son it's a good berth, though a mean one, to what I meant to give you; but you'll be industrious and mind what's told you, and I'll still be looking after you, and you'll have plenty of books, dear, for they are not scarce here."

"The boy will have but little chance of meddling with books," said the printer, "it will be time enough when he is older. Is he to stay now, or do you wish him to come next week? he must be apprenticed to me, you recollect."

Smothering and choking was the poor fellow for a minute or two; he knew that the hundred dollars was all gone, and that my last quarter had just ended. He knew it was entirely out of his power to assist me any further, so with a mighty effort he made the sacrifice—he transferred me to another.

It was but the work of half an hour, and I became this man's property; for twelve years he was to rule my destiny. I looked up in his face whilst he was speaking, and I saw nothing to cheer me; his countenance was only expressive of care and deep thought. I cast another glance at him when