One morning, as Henry was really doing a little work, a more ponderous step broke the silence of his landing, a heavy footfall full of friendship. Certainly that was not Angel, nor even the more weighty Esther, though when the knock came it was little and shy as a woman's.

Henry threw open the door, but for a moment there was no one to be seen; and then, recalling the idiosyncrasy of a certain new friend whom by that very token he guessed it might be, he came out on to the landing, to find a great big friendly man in corpulent blue serge, a rough, dark beard, and a slouched hat, standing a few feet off in a deprecating way,--which really meant that if there were any ladies in the room with Mr. Mesurier, he would prefer to call another time. For though he had two or three grownup daughters of his own, this giant of a man was as shy of a bit of a thing like Angel, whom he had met there one day, as though he were a mere boy. He always felt, he once said in explanation, as though he might break them in shaking hands. They affected him like the presence of delicate china, and yet he could hold a baby deftly as an elephant can nip up a flower; and to see him turn over the pages of a delicate Édition de luxe was a lesson in tenderness. For this big man who, as he would himself say, looked for all the world like a pirate, was as insatiable of fine editions as a school-girl of chocolate creams. He was one of those dearest of God's creatures, a gentle giant; and his voice, when it wasn't necessary to be angry, was as low and kind as an old nurse at the cradle's side.

Henry had come to know him through his little Scotch printer, who printed circulars and bill-heads, for the business over which Mr. Fairfax--for that was his name--presided. By day he was the vigorous brain of a huge emporium, a sort of Tyrian Whiteley's; but day and night he was a lover of books, and you could never catch him so busy but that he could spare the time mysteriously to beckon you into his private office, and with the glee of a child, show you his last large paper. He not only loved books; but he was rumoured liberally to have assisted one or two distressed men of genius well-known to the world. The tales of the surreptitious goodness of his heart were many; but it was known too that the big kind man had a terribly searching eye under his briery brows, and could be as stern towards ingratitude as he was soft to misfortune. Henry once caught a glimpse of this as they spoke of a mutual friend whom he had helped to no purpose. Mr. Fairfax never used many words, on this occasion he was grimly laconic.

"Rat-poison!" he said, shaking his head. "Rat-poison!" It was his way of saying that that was the only cure for that particular kind of man.

It was evident that his generous eye had seen how things were with Henry. He had subscribed for at least a dozen copies of "The Book of Angelica," and in several ways shown his interest in the struggling young poet. As has been said, he had seen Angelica one day, and his shyness had not prevented his heart from going out to these two young people, and the dream he saw in their eyes. He had determined to do what he could to help them, and to-day he had come with a plan.

"I hope you're not too proud to give me a hand, Mr. Mesurier, in a little idea I've got," he said.

"I think you know how proud I am, and how proud I'm not, Mr. Fairfax," said Henry. "I'm sure anything I could do for you would make me proud, if that's what you mean."

"Thank you. Thank you. But you mustn't speak too fast. It's advertising--does the word frighten you? No? Well, it's a scheme I've thought of for a little really artistic and humorous advertising combined. I've got a promise from one of the most original artists of the day, you know his name, to do the pictures; and I want you to do the verses--at, I may say, your own price. It's not, perhaps, the highest occupation for a poet; but it's something to be going on with; and if we've got good posters as advertisements, I don't see why we shouldn't have good humorous verse. What do you think of it?"

"I think it's capital," said Henry, who was almost too ready to turn his hand to anything. "Of course I'll do it; only too glad."

"Well, that's settled. Now, name your price. Don't be frightened!"

"Really, I can't. I haven't the least idea what I should get. Wait till I have done a few of the verses, and you can give me what you please."

"No, sir," said Mr. Fairfax; "business is business. If you won't name a figure, I must. Will you consider a hundred pounds sufficient?"

"A hundred pounds!" Henry gasped out, the tears almost starting to his eyes.

Mr. Fairfax did not miss his frank joy, and liked him for his ingenuousness.

"All right, then; we'll call it settled. I shall be ready for the verses as soon as you care to write them."

"Mr. Fairfax, I will tell you frankly that this is a great deal to me, and I thank you from my heart."

"Not a word, not a word, my boy. We want your verses, we want your verses. That's right, isn't it? Good verses, good money! Now no more of that," and the good man, in alarm lest he should be thanked further, made an abrupt and awkward farewell.

"It will keep the lad going a few months anyhow," he said to himself, as he tramped downstairs, glad that he'd been able to think of something; for, while the scheme was admirable as an advertisement, and would more than repay Messrs. Owens' outlay, its origin had been pure philanthropy. Such good angels do walk this world in the guise of bulky, quite unpoetic-looking business-men.

"One hundred pounds!" said Henry, over and over again to himself. "One hundred pounds! What news for Angel!"

He had soon a scheme in his head for the book, which entirely hit Mr. Fairfax's fancy. It was to make a volume of verse celebrating each of the various departments of the great store, in metres parodying the styles of the old English ballads and various poets, ancient and modern, and was to be called, "Bon MarchÉ Ballads."

"Something like this, for example," said Henry, a few days later, pulling an envelope covered with pencil-scribble from his pocket. "This for the ladies' department,--

"Oh, where do you buy your hats, lady?
And where do you buy your hose?
And where do you buy your shoes, lady?
And where your underclothes?
"Hats, shoes, and stockings, everything
A lady's heart requires,
Quality good, and prices low,
We are the largest buyers!
"The stock we bought on Wednesday last
Is fading fast away,
To-morrow it may be too late--
Oh, come and buy to-day!"

Mr. Fairfax fairly trumpeted approval. "If they're all as good as that," he said; "you must have more money. Yes, you must. Well, well,--we'll see, we'll see!" And when the "Bon MarchÉ Ballads" actually appeared, the generous creature insisted on adding another fifty pounds to the cheque.

As many were afterwards of opinion that Henry never again did such good work as these nonsense rhymes, written thus for a frolic,--and one hundred and fifty pounds,--and as copies of the "Bon MarchÉ Ballads" are now exceedingly scarce, it may possibly be of interest to quote two or three more of its preposterous numbers. This is a lyric illustrative of cheese, for the provision department:--

"Are you fond of cheese?
Do you sometimes sigh
For a really good
Gorgonzola? Try,
"Try our one-and-ten,
Wonderfully rotten,
Tasted once, it never can
Be again forgotten!"

Here is "a Ballad of Baby's Toys:"--

"Oh, give me a toy" the baby said--
The babe of three months old,--
Oh, what shall I buy my little babee,
With silver and with gold?"
"I would you buy a trumpet fine,
And a rocking-horse for me,
And a bucket and a spade, mother,
To dig beside the sea."
"But where shall I buy these pretty things?"
The mother's heart inquires.
"Oh, go to Owens!" cried the babe;
"They are the largest buyers."

The subject of our last selection is "Melton Mowbray," which bore beneath its title due apologies to Mr. Swinburne:--

"Strange pie, that is almost a passion,
O passion immoral, for pie!
Unknown are the ways that they fashion,
Unknown and unseen of the eye,
The pie that is marbled and mottled,
The pie that digests with a sigh:
For all is not Bass that is bottled,
And all is not pork that is pie."

Of all the goodness else that Henry and Angel were to owe in future days to Mr. Fairfax, there is not room in this book to write. But that matters little, for is it not written in the Book of Love?