best judge I know."

She did not understand that it was a little more than the grammar of
poetry the school-master had ever given himself to understand. His best
criticism was to show phrase calling to phrase across gulfs of speech.

The little iron gate, whose hinges were almost gone with rust, creaked
and gnarred as it slowly opened to admit the approach of a young
countryman. He advanced with the long, slow, heavy step suggestive of
nailed shoes; but his hazel eye had an outlook like that of an eagle
from its eyrie, and seemed to dominate his being, originating rather
than directing its motions. He had a russet-colored face, much freckled;
hair so dark red as to be almost brown; a large, well-shaped nose; a
strong chin; and a mouth of sweetness whose smile was peculiarly its
own, having in it at once the mystery and the revelation of Andrew
Ingram. He took off his bonnet as he drew near, and held it as low as
his knee, while with something of the air of an old-fashioned courtier,
he stood waiting. His clothes, all but his coat, which was of some blue
stuff, and his Sunday one, were of a large-ribbed corduroy. For a moment
no one spoke. He colored a little, but kept silent, his eyes on the
lady.

"Good-morning, Andrew!" she said at length. "There was something, I
forget what, you were to call about! Remind me--will you?"

"I did not come before, ma'am, because I knew you were occupied. And
even now it does not greatly matter."

"Oh, I remember!--the poem! I am very sorry, but I had so much to think
of that it went quite out of my mind."