"You, sir?"

"Yes. The trifling pittance upon which I lived, and barely lived, and
yet from which I could still extract enough to do a little good--to
feed, perhaps, one starving throat--is wrested, torn from me, and from
those who shared in what it might obtain. I am myself a beggar."

Mr Clayton became agitated as he spoke, and I implored him to compose
himself.

"Yes--it is that I wish to do. I should be above the influence of dross.
And for myself I am. Would that I might suffer alone! And this is not
all. The man who has effected my ruin owes every thing to me. I found
him penniless, and raised him to a condition that should have inspired
him with regard and gratitude. I would have trusted that man with
confidence unbounded. I did entrust him with my all, and he has beggared
and undone me."

"Take it not to heart, sir," I said, soothing the afflicted man; "things
may not be so bad as you suppose."

"They cannot be worse," was the reply; "but I will _not_ take it to
heart. The blow is hard to bear--the carnal man must feel it--yet I am
not without my solace. Read to me, Caleb."

I read a chapter from the work that was lying on the bed. It was called
"_The Good Man's Comfort in Affliction_." It was effectual in restoring
my friend to composure. He spoke afterwards with his usual softness
of manner.