arrangement; there was in him the genius of a great preacher. He felt
it,--he knew it; and in that despair which only genius knows when some
pitiful cause obstructs its energies and strikes down its powers, making
a confidant of Solitude he wept loud and freely.

"Do not despond, sir, I undertake to cure you," said a voice behind.

George started up in confusion; a man, elderly, but fresh and vigorous,
stood beside him, in a light fustian jacket, a blue apron, and with
rushes in his hands, which he continued to plait together nimbly and
deftly as he bowed to the startled scholar.

"I was in the shade of the thicket yonder, sir; pardon me, I could not
help hearing you."

The Oxonian rubbed his eyes, and stared at the man with a vague
impression that he had seen him before;--when? where?

"You can cure me," he stuttered out; "what of?--the folly of trying to
speak in public? Thank you, I am cured."

"Nay, sir, you see before you a man who can make you a very good speaker.
Your voice is naturally fine. I repeat, I can cure a defect which is not
in the organ, but in the management!"

"You can! you--who and what are you?"

"A basketmaker, sir; I hope for your custom." "Surely this is not the
first time I have seen you?"