to show you that I deserved your belief in me.—Mr. Blake was kind to me when he came to my old school. He was pleased, I think, with some verses I had to recite, and so …' He had snapped his fingers impatiently, and made a sharp noise with his lips. I stopped speaking. He cried out with a smiling mouth:
'You are not the boy who recited Longfellow's "Psalm of Life?"'
'I am,' I said.
'Immediately after that visit he came and stopped with me here in London for a few days.'
His face grew sadder. He went on slowly:
'It was the last time I saw him. You know of his terrible death, not so long after? All that he said in those few days has been treasured up by me, and lives for ever in my memory. The first night he came, after dinner, as we were sitting here by this very fire over our cigars and wine, he told me about the little boy he had seen that afternoon!'
He caught himself up:
'Well, and how old are you now?'
'Eighteen.'
'You strange boy! Eighteen.—Why, it is ridiculous! (I really must read some of those Rejected Addresses of yours some day.)—You are very tall for your age, and look very old for eighteen.'
I smiled:
'This fortnight has made me older by five years, I think. Years are no test of age, sir.'
We talked together for almost an hour—of many things. Then he looked at his watch and jumped up, saying:
'You have made me forget that I have a very great deal to do this morning, young man.'
'I am sorry, sir.'
'—But very pleasantly.'
'Then I am glad.'
I smiled, and so did he. He touched me on the shoulder.
As I was going, he spoke of Mr. Blake again—how that he was a truly great and good man, one who was without the cant of the two words, a Christian gentleman.
