with a pure heart, who sang songs so plaintively that you cried, or so splendidly that martial shivers jumped along your spine, or so loudly that the roof complained.
A man who took him—Griswold B. Wareing, the Grand Mogul of Pennsylvania—under his wing, instructed him with strange fables, and would not let him pay for as much as a chop-stick. He had become conscious, without being told, that the huge, graceful young man had seen most of the things worth seeing, done most of the things worth doing, sat at meat with princes and ridden their elephants for them, and was withal as simple and communicative as a child and as debonair as the seraphim. "He is the Lord's anointed," wrote Griswold B. Wareing to his son and heir. "And thou shalt go and do likewise."
Beauling took him one day to lunch with some friends of his in a little house on the hill. There were a man and his wife and their children five.
Over the gate of the house was gilded:
