e had studied hers that morning;
he knew so little about his own face that he could scarcely distinguish a
good portrait of himself from a poor one; but Prudence knew it by heart.
It was a thin, delicate face, marred with much thought, the features not
large, and finely cut, with deep set eyes as black as midnight, and, when
they were neither grave nor stern, as soft as a dove's eyes; cheeks and
chin were closely shaven; his hair, a heavy black mass, was pushed back
from a brow already lined with thought or care, and worn somewhat long
behind the ears; there was no hardness in any line of the face, because
there was no hardness in the heart, there was sin and sorrow in the
world, but he believed that God is good.

The slight figure was not above medium height; he had a stoop in the
shoulders that added to his general appearance of delicacy; he was
scholarly from the crown of his black head to the very tip of his worn,
velvet slipper; his slender hands, with their perfectly kept nails, and
even the stain of ink on the forefinger of his right hand, had an air of
scholarship about them. His black summer suit was a perfect fit, his
boots were shining, the knot of his narrow black neck tie was a little
towards one side, but that was the only evidence that he was careless
about his personal appearance.

"I want my boys to be neat," he had said once apologetically to Mrs.
Devoe, when requesting her to give away his old school suit preparatory
to buying another.

All he needed to be perfect was congenial social life, Prudence believed,
but that, alas, seemed never to enter his conception. He knew it never
had since that long ago day when he had congratulated his brother upon
his perfect share of this world's happiness. And, queerly enough,
Prudence stood too greatly in awe of him to suggest that his life was too
one-sided and solitary.

"Some people wonder if you were ever married," Mrs. Devoe said to him
that afternoon when he went down to his late supper. Mrs. Devoe never
stood in awe of anybody.

"Yes, I was married twenty years ago--to my work," he replied, gravely;
"there isn't any John Holmes, there is only my work."

"There is something that is John Holmes to me," said the widow in her
quick voice, "and there's a John Holmes to the boys and girls, and I
guess the Lord thinks something of you beside your 'work,' as you call
it."

Meditatively he walked along the grassy wayside towards the brown
farmhouse:

"Per