e thought he had cornered
the Doctor, he would colour and laugh like a boy, then suddenly check
himself, lest he might wound him! A curious laugh, genial,
cheery,--bubbling out of his weak voice in a way that put you in mind
of some old and rare wine. When he would check himself in one of these
triumphant glows, he would turn to the Doctor with a deprecatory
gravity, and for a few moments be almost submissive in his reply. So
earnest and worn it looked then, the poor old face, in the dim light!
The black clothes he wore were so threadbare and shining at the knees
and elbows, the coarse leather shoes brought to so fine a polish! The
Doctor idly wondered who had blacked them, glancing at Margret's
fingers.

There was a flower stuck in the button-hole of the school-master's
coat, a pale tea-rose. If Dr. Knowles had been a man of fine
instincts, (which his opaque shining eyes would seem to deny,) he might
have thought it was not unapt or ill-placed even in the shabby, scuffed
coat. A scholar, a gentleman, though in patched shoes and trousers a
world too short. Old and gaunt, hunger-bitten even it may be, with
loose-jointed, bony limbs, and yellow face; clinging, loyal and brave,
to the quaint, delicate fancies of his youth, that were dust and ashes
to other men. In the very haggard face you could find the quiet purity
of the child he had been, and the old child's smile, fresh and
credulous, on the mouth.

The Doctor had not spoken for a moment. It might be that he was
careless of the poetic lights with which Mr. Howth tenderly decorated
his old faith, or it might be, that even he, with the terrible
intentness of a real life-purpose in his brain, was touched by the
picture of the far old chivalry, dead long ago. The master's voice grew
low and lingering now. It was a labour of love, this. Oh, it is so
easy to go back out of the broil of dust and meanness and barter into
the clear shadow of that old life where love and bravery stand eternal
verities,--never to be bought and sold in that dusty town yonder! To
go back? To dream back, rather. To drag out of our own hearts, as the
hungry old master did, whatever is truest and highest there, and clothe
it with name and deed in the dim days of chivalry. Make a poem of
it,--so much easier than to make a life!

Knowles shuffled uneasily, watching the girl keenly, to know how the
picture touched her. Was, then, she thought, this grand, dead Past so
shallow to him?