k was behind the counter laughing. If
it was closed, you knew that he was in bed coughing. A fine-looking
fellow was Dick, or would have been if only his health had given him a
chance. Fine wavy golden hair tossed in naive disorder about his lofty
forehead; and a small pointed golden beard set off a frank, cheery,
open face. Somehow or other, there was a certain touch of chivalry
about Dick, although it is not easy to say exactly how it made itself
felt. It was a certain knightly bearing, perhaps, a haughty contempt
for his own suffering, a rollicking but resolute refusal of anything in
the shape of pity. Coughing or laughing, there was always a roguish
little twinkle in the corner of his eye, a kind of danger signal that
kept you on constant guard lest his next sally should take you by
surprise.

The church at North-East Valley has had its ups and downs, like most
churches, but as long as Dick was its secretary it never had a gloomy
church meeting. However grave or unexpected might be the crisis, he
came up smiling, and greeted the unseen with a cheer. When things were
going well, he always made the most of it, and drew attention to the
encouraging features in the church's outlook. If things were so-so, he
pointed out that they might have been a great deal worse, and that the
church was putting up a brave fight against heavy odds. If anybody
criticized the minister, Dick was on his feet in a minute. Could the
minister do everything? Dick wanted to know. Was he solely
responsible for the unsatisfactory conditions? Why, anybody who
watches the minister can see that the poor man is doing his best,
which, Dick slyly added, is more than can be said for some of us! And
the ministers of North-East Valley used to tell me that when they
themselves got down in the dumps, Dick treated their collapse as a
glorious joke. He would come down to the Manse and laugh until he
coughed, and cough until he could laugh again, and, by the time that he
stopped laughing and coughing, the masses of his golden hair were
tumbled about his high forehead like shocks of corn blown from the
stocks by playful winds in harvest-time; and when he went home to
finish his coughing, the Manse was flooded with the laughter and the
sunshine that he had left behind him.

I was sitting one morning in my study at Mosgiel, when there came a
ring at the front door bell. On answering it, I found myself standing
face to face with Dick. He was lau