expression, which might now, for the first time, be softening his iron
features, animating the blank stillness of his countenance. If any
such expression had been visible, I was too late to detect it. Just as
I looked at him he stooped down to poke the fire. When he turned
towards me again, his face was the same impenetrable face, his eye the
same hard, steady, inexpressive eye as before.

"Besides," he continued, "a man must have some object in life for his
sympathies to be employed on. I have neither wife nor child; and no
near relations to think of--I have nothing but my routine of business
in the day, and my books here by my lonely fireside, at night. Our
life is not much; but it was made for a little more than this. My
former pupil at North Villa is my pupil no longer. I can't help
feeling that it would be an object in existence for me to occupy
myself with her happiness and yours; to have two young people, in the
heyday of youth and first love, looking towards me occasionally for
the promotion of some of their pleasures--no matter how trifling. All
this will seem odd and incomprehensible to _you._ If you were of my
age, Sir, and in my position, you would understand it."

Was it possible that he could speak thus, without his voice faltering,
or his eye softening in the slightest degree? Yes: I looked at him and
listened to him intently; but here was not the faintest change in his
face or his tones--there was nothing to show outwardly whether he felt
what he said, or whether he did not. His words had painted such a
picture of forlornness on my mind, that I had mechanically half raised
my hand to take his, while he was addressing me; but the sight of him
when he ceased, checked the impulse almost as soon as it was formed.
He did not appear to have noticed either my involuntary gesture, or
its immediate repression; and went on speaking.