cries were piteous. Margrave clapped his hands to his ears, uttered
an exclamation of anger, and not even stopping to lift up the boy, or
examine what the hurt was, called to the other children to come on, and
was soon rolling with them on the grass, and pelting them with daisies.
When I came up, only one child remained by the sufferer,-his little
brother, a year older than himself. The child had fallen on his arm,
which was not broken, but violently contused. The pain must have been
intense. I carried the child to his home, and had to remain there some
time. I did not see Margrave till the next morning. When he then called,
I felt so indignant that I could scarcely speak to him. When at last
I rebuked him for his inhumanity, he seemed surprised; with difficulty
remembered the circumstance, and then merely said, as if it were the
most natural confession in the world,

"Oh, nothing so discordant as a child's wail. I hate discords. I am
pleased with the company of children; but they must be children who
laugh and play. Well, why do you look at me so sternly? What have I said
to shock you?"

"Shock me! you shock manhood itself! Go; I cannot talk to you now. I am
busy."

But he did not go; and his voice was so sweet, and his ways so winning,
that disgust insensibly melted into that sort of forgiveness one accords
(let me repeat the illustration) to the deer that forsakes its comrade.
The poor thing knows no better. And what a graceful beautiful thing this
was!

The fascination--I can give it no other name--which Margrave exercised,
was not confined to me; it was universal,--old, young, high, low, man,
woman, child, all felt it. Never in Low Town had stranger, even the most
distinguished by fame, met with a reception so cordial, so flattering.
His frank confession that he was a natural son, far from being to his
injury, served to interest people more in him, and to prevent all those
inquiries in regard to his connections and antecedents which would
otherwise have been afloat. To be sure, he was evidently rich,--at least
he had plenty of money. He lived in the best rooms in the principal
hotel; was very hospitable; entertained the families with whom he had
grown intimate; made them bring their children,--music and dancing
after dinner. Among the houses in which he had established familiar
acquaintance was that of the mayor of the town, who had bought Dr.
Lloyd's collection of subjects in natural history. To that collecti