both were in a manner lost.

John Redfield, though an abrupt man, and rather eccentric, had as kind a
heart as any one I ever knew. He was connected with a newspaper in the
city, and wrote wonderful articles about police courts, that, somehow,
sounded more like sermons than stories. In my early days, before
Gutenberg and his movable types came within the scope of my knowledge, I
believed he printed out the whole edition with a lead-pencil, and
entertained most exalted ideas of his capacity. He had a passion for
giving boys painted boats. I must have received twenty--all exactly
alike--at various outbreaks of his generosity. He had the queerest way
of bestowing favors I almost ever saw. When he wished to make a boy a
present, he shoved it roughly into his pocket, and then started off as
if the house was on fire. What brought up the subject I do not now
remember, but that evening Mrs. Morton persisted in talking about Clara
Hague. She spoke of their childhood, of the old homestead, of the
nutting, the apple-picking, the cider-making, and the hundred other
occupations and amusements of their young life.

She had a vivid power of description, and a charming simplicity in her
choice of words, that entertained even me; but I could see Mr. Redfield
was troubled. He moved restlessly on the lounge, and once drew a shawl
over his face. At last she touched on the shoestore, its doleful decay
and downfall, and the years the unhappy woman had struggled on. At this
he started to go; but there was something in her manner that detained
him. Her tone had been light and chatty before; and, though she spoke
with proper gravity, it was sprightly rather than earnest. I did not
notice any striking change; and yet it seemed suddenly to assume the
gentle impressiveness one sometimes fancies we should hear from the
pulpit.