heroic deed! How he crowded in traits of perfected manhood in
the conqueror, simple trust in the serf, to colour and weaken his
argument, not seeing that he weakened it! How, when he thought
he had cornered the Doctor, he would colour and laugh like a boy,
then suddenly check himself, lest he might wound him! A curious
laugh, genial, cheery,--bubbling out of his weak voice in a way
that put you in mind of some old and rare wine. When he would
check himself in one of these triumphant glows, he would turn to
the Doctor with a deprecatory gravity, and for a few moments be
almost submissive in his reply. So earnest and worn it looked
then, the poor old face, in the dim light! The black clothes he
wore were so threadbare and shining at the knees and elbows, the
coarse leather shoes brought to so fine a polish! The Doctor
idly wondered who had blacked them, glancing at Margret's
fingers.

There was a flower stuck in the button-hole of the
school-master's coat, a pale tea-rose. If Dr. Knowles had been a
man of fine instincts, (which his opaque shining eyes would seem
to deny,) he might have thought it was not unapt or ill-placed
even in the shabby, scuffed coat. A scholar, a gentleman, though
in patched shoes and trousers a world too short. Old and gaunt,
hunger-bitten even it may be, with loose-jointed, bony limbs, and
yellow face; clinging, loyal and brave, to the quaint, delicate
fancies of his youth, that were dust and ashes to other men. In
the very haggard face you could find the quiet purity of the
child he had been, and the old child's smile, fresh and
credulous, on the mouth.

The Doctor had not spoken for a moment. It might be that he was