with the quiet usefulness and studious ease of his life. But in her
presence something of his old youthfulness came back, some reflection of
the ardent hopes of his young manhood. He did not notice the change in
himself. He only knew that his life was very full. He read later at
nights, he rose earlier in the morning. But unconsciously to himself,
he was undergoing a change. The more a man's sympathies and emotions
are active, the less is he the philosopher. It is only when one has
withdrawn from the more personal influence of the emotions that one's
philosophy may be trusted. One may be interested in mankind and still
be philosophical--may be, as it were, the priest and confessor to all
comers. But let one be touched in some vital corner in one's nature,
and the high, faultless impartiality is gone. In proportion as Richard's
interest in Lali had grown, the universal quality of his sympathy had
declined. Man is only man. Not that his benefactions as lord-bountiful
in the parish had grown perfunctory, but the calm detail of his interest
was not so definite. He was the same, yet not the same.

He was not aware of any difference in himself. He did not know that he
looked younger by ten years. Such is the effect of mere personal
sympathy upon a man's look and bearing. When, therefore, one bright May
morning, the family at Greyhope, himself excluded, was ready to start for
London, he had no thought but that he would drop back into his old silent
life, as it was before Lali came, and his brother's child was born. He
was not conscious that he was very restless that morning; he scarcely was
aware that he had got up two hours earlier than usual. At the breakfast-
table he was cheerful and alert. After breakfast he amused himself in
playing with the child till the carriage was brought round. It was such
a morning as does not come a dozen times a year in England. The sweet,
moist air blew from the meadows and up through the lime trees with a
warm, insinuating gladness. The lawn sloped delightfully away to the