DR. SEPTIMUS BAXTER was President of Marion College, situate in the beautiful town of Hamilton, lying a hundred and fifty miles further to the northward, and in another State than the mountain township of Beechdale. He was the nominal head of the faculty of professors, and Mrs. Septimus Baxter was virtual autocrat of his household.
He was a little man, physically, at his best, which was when he was in his own realm—the area enclosed by the walls of his lecture-room. There was, in popular phrase, "no fit" to his clothes. His trowsers bagged at the knees, and his coats hung in loose folds straight down from his shoulder-blades, on the very day they left the tailor's shop; were shabby within twenty-four hours. He had a trick of brushing the nap of his hat the wrong way in his abstracted moods, and of twisting his forefinger in one bow of his white cravat until he dragged it into a slovenly loop, two crumpled wisps depending from it. Another and his most inveterate habit was to tie his handkerchief into a succession of tight knots while he lectured, preached, prayed and talked. Each marked a step in ratiocination, or a rise in interest in the matter that engaged his mind until the climax of proof or animation was reached, when he would begin to untie them, one after the other, timing the process so judiciously that "Amen," or "Quod erat demonstrandum," passed his lips as the released cambric swept through his hand in a flourish, prior to its restoration to his pocket. Nevertheless, he commanded respect from students and professors. His courage in grappling with crabbed or ponderous themes; the eagle eye that penetrated the vapors of mysticism, detected the insidious thread of sophistry which, intertwined with legitimate argument, was gradually but fatally guiding the inquirer away from the truth; the bursts of real eloquence, passages of beauty and pathos that starred the didacticism of his discourses, electrifying his hearers as the musical ring from the desiccated tortoise-shell may have startled the god who tripped over it—these made him a hero to his classes, a man to be consulted and reverenced by his co-laborers. Moreover, he had a great heart within his narrow chest, soft as a child's, generous to self-denial, and full of such holy and Christian graces as love the shade, while their unconscious aroma betrays their existence to all who pass.
Mrs. Baxter had been a belle, and would hardly have cast a second glance upon the small and shabby divine, but for two weighty reasons. By some unaccountable freak of Cupid or Fortune, the popular Miss Lanneau had counted her thirtieth year without exchanging her celibate state for that which she languishingly avowed would be preferable to one of her dependent nature and seeking
