He went to Wolfe and put his hand kindly on his arm. Something
of a vague idea possessed the Doctor's brain that much good was
to be done here by a friendly word or two: a latent genius to
be warmed into life by a waited-for sunbeam. Here it was: he
had brought it. So he went on complacently:

"Do you know, boy, you have it in you to be a great sculptor, a
great man?do you understand?" (talking down to the capacity of
his hearer: it is a way people have with children, and men like
Wolfe,)--"to live a better, stronger life than I, or Mr. Kirby
here? A man may make himself anything he chooses. God has
given you stronger powers than many men,--me, for instance."

May stopped, heated, glowing with his own magnanimity. And it
was magnanimous. The puddler had drunk in every word, looking
through the Doctor's flurry, and generous heat, and self-
approval, into his will, with those slow, absorbing eyes of his.

"Make yourself what you will. It is your right.

"I know," quietly. "Will you help me?"

Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a passion,--

"You know, Mitchell, I have not the means. You know, if I had,
it is in my heart to take this boy and educate him for"--

"The glory of God, and the glory of John May."