under the weight of a small box. In the doorway of the little
shop, young Grindley paused and raised his hat.

"Mrs. Postwhistle?"

The lady, from her chair behind the counter, rose slowly.

"I am Mr. Nathaniel Grindley, the new assistant."

The weak-kneed wastrel let fall the box with a thud upon the floor.
Mrs. Postwhistle looked her new assistant up and down.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Postwhistle. "Well, I shouldn't 'ave felt
instinctively it must be you, not if I'd 'ad to pick you out of a
crowd. But if you tell me so, why, I suppose you are. Come in."

The weak-kneed wastrel, receiving to his astonishment a shilling,
departed.

Grindley senior had selected wisely. Mrs. Postwhistle's theory was
that although very few people in this world understood their own
business, they understood it better than anyone else could
understand it for them. If handsome, well-educated young
gentlemen, who gave shillings to wastrels, felt they wanted to
become smart and capable grocers' assistants, that was their
affair. Her business was to teach them their work, and, for her
own sake, to see that they did it. A month went by. Mrs.
Postwhistle found her new assistant hard-working, willing, somewhat
clumsy, but with a smile and a laugh that transformed mistakes, for
which another would have been soundly rated, into welcome