Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
1884
Two worn travellers, a young man and a fair girl about four years old,sat on the towing-path by the side of the Trent.
The young man had his coat off, by which you might infer it was very hot;but no, it was a keen October day, and an east wind sweeping down theriver. The coat was wrapped tightly round the little girl, so that onlyher fair face with blue eyes and golden hair peeped out; and the youngfather sat in his shirt sleeves, looking down on her with a loving butanxious look. Her mother, his wife, had died of consumption, and he wasin mortal terror lest biting winds and scanty food should wither thissweet flower too, his one remaining joy.
William Hope was a man full of talent; self-educated, and wonderfullyquick at learning anything: he was a linguist, a mechanic, amineralogist, a draughtsman, an inventor. Item, a bit of a farrier, andhalf a surgeon; could play the fiddle and the guitar; could draw andpaint and drive a four-in-hand. Almost the only thing he could not do wasto make money and keep it.
Versatility seldom pays. But, to tell the truth, luck was against him;and although in a long life every deserving man seems to get a chance,yet Fortune does baffle some meritorious men for a limited time.Generally, we think, good fortune and ill fortune succeed each otherrapidly, like red cards and black; but to some ill luck comes in greatlong slices; and if they don't drink or despair, by-and-by good luckcomes continuously, and everything turns to gold with him who has waitedand