ight over Mr. MacGentle's standing-desk, in the embrasure
of the window. As often as he looks up he beholds the reflection of
his cultured and sad-lined physiognomy, with a glimpse of dusky wall
beyond. Is he a vain man? His worst enemy, had he one, would not call
him that. Nevertheless, Mr. MacGentle finds a pathetic comfort in this
small mirror. No one, not even he, could tell wherefore; but we fancy
it to be like that an exile feels, seeing a picture of his birthplace,
or hearing a strain of his native music. The mirror shows him
something more real, to his sense, than is anything outside of it!

Well, there stands the old gentleman, writing at this desk in the
window. All men, they say, bear more or less resemblance to some
animal; Mr. MacGentle, rather tall and slender, with his slight stoop,
and his black broadcloth frock-coat buttoned closely about his waist,
brings to mind a cultivated, grandfatherly greyhound, upon his hind
legs. He has thick white hair, with a gentle curl in it, growing all
over his finely moulded head. He is close-shaven; his mouth and nose
are formed with great delicacy; his eyes, now somewhat faded, yet show
an occasional reminiscence of youthful fire. The eyebrows are
habitually lifted,--a result, possibly, of the growing infirmity of
Mr. MacGentle's vision; but it produces an expression of
half-plaintive resignation, which is rendered pathetic by the wrinkles
across his forehead and the dejected lines about his delicate mouth.

He is dressed with faultless nicety and elegance, though in a fashion
now out of date. Perhaps, in graceful recognition of the advance of
age, he has adhered to the style in vogue when age first began to
weigh upon his shoulders. He gazes mildly out from the embrasure of
an upright collar and tall stock; below spreads a wide expanse of
spotless shirt-front. His trousers are always gray, except in the heat
of summer, when they become snowy white. They are uniformly too long;
yet he never dispenses with his straps, nor with the gaiters that
crown his gentlemanly shoes.

Although not a stimulating companion, one loves to be where Amos
MacGentle is; to watch his quiet movements, and listen to his
meditative talk. What he says generally bears the stamp of thought and
intellectual capacity, and at first strikes the listener as rare good
sense; yet, if reconsidered afterwards, or applied to the practical
tests of life, his wisdom is apt to fall mysteriously short. Is Mr