en I looked at him. He always dressed with extreme
simplicity; generally in grey, he was fond of grey; and in something of
our Quaker fashion. On this day, I remember, I noticed an especial
carefulness of attire, at his age neither unnatural nor unbecoming.
His well-fitting coat and long-flapped vest, garnished with the
snowiest of lawn frills and ruffles; his knee-breeches, black silk
hose, and shoes adorned with the largest and brightest of steel
buckles, made up a costume, which, quaint as it would now appear, still
is, to my mind, the most suitable and graceful that a young man can
wear. I never see any young men now who come at all near the picture
which still remains in my mind's eye of John Halifax as he looked that
day.

Once, with the natural sensitiveness of youth, especially of youth that
has struggled up through so many opposing circumstances as his had
done, he noticed my glance.

"Anything amiss about me, Phineas? You see I am not much used to
holidays and holiday clothes."

"I have nothing to say against either you or your clothes," replied I,
smiling.

"That's all right; I beg to state, it is entirely in honour of you and
of Enderley that I have slipped off my tan-yard husk, and put on the
gentleman."

"You couldn't do that, John. You couldn't put on what you were born
with."

He laughed--but I think he was pleased.

We had now come into a hilly region. John leaped out and gained the
top of the steep road long before the post-chaise did. I watched him
standing, balancing in his hands the riding-whip which had replaced the
everlasting rose-switch, or willow-wand, of his boyhood. His figure
was outlined sharply against the sky, his head thrown backward a
little, as he gazed, evidently with the keenest zest, on the breezy
flat before him. His hair--a little darker than it used to be, but of
the true Saxon colour still, and curly as ever--was blown about by the
wind, under his broad hat. His whole appearance was full of life,
health, energy, and enjoyment.

I thought any father might have been proud of such a son, any sister of
such a brother, any young girl of such a lover. Ay, that last tie, the
only one of the three that was possible to him--I wondered how long it
would be before times changed, and I ceased to be the only one who was
proud of him.

We drove on a little further, and came to the chief landmark of the
high moorland--a quaint hostelry, called the "Bear." Bruin swung a