k life too gravely, and gave
himself the airs of a patriarch.

In person he was a thin spare man, somewhat sallow, and with dark
melancholy eyes that were full of intelligence. When he smiled, which
he did more rarely than most people, he looked at least ten years
younger.

In reality he was nearly thirty, but he never measured his age by
years. "I have not had my innings yet," he would say; "I am going to
renew my youth presently; I mean to have my harvest of good things like
other fellows, and eat, drink, and be merry;" but from all appearance
the time had not come yet.

Malcolm Herrick's chambers were in Lincoln's Inn. Thither he was
turning his footsteps one sultry July afternoon, when as usual he
paused at a certain point, while a smile of pleasure stole to his lips.

Familiarity had not yet dulled the edge of his enjoyment; now, as ever,
it soothed and tranquillised him to turn from the noisy crowded streets
into this quiet spot with its gray old buildings, its patch of grass,
and the broad wide steps up and down which men, hurrying silently,
passed and repassed intent on the day's work.

As usual at this hour, the flagged court was crowded by pigeons,
strutting fearlessly between the feet of the passers-by, and filling
the air with their soft cooing voices.

"Ah, my friend the cobbler," he said to himself, and he moved a little
nearer to watch the pretty sight. A child's perambulator--a very
shabby, rickety concern--had been pushed against the fence, and its
occupant, a girl, evidently a cripple, was throwing corn to the eager
winged creatures. Two or three, more fearless than the others, had
flown on to the perambulator and were pecking out of the child's hands.
Presently she caught one and hugged it to her thin little bosom. "Oh
dad, look here--oh daddy, see, its dear little head is all green and
purple. I want to kiss it--I do--I love it so."

"Better put it down, Kit--the poor thing is scared," returned the man,
and the child reluctantly let it fly. It made straight for the distant
roofs behind them, but the rest of the pigeons still strutted and
pecked round the perambulator with tiny mincing steps, like court
ladies practising the minuet. Malcolm looked on with unabated
relish--the homely idyll always charmed him.

He had never spoken to the crippled child or her father, although they
had often crossed his path at this hour; nevertheless he regarded them
as old friends.

More than once he had ma