Was my gladness over-bold? Would he misconstrue it? No--he is too clear-sighted, too humble-minded, too wise. With him, I have always the feeling that I need take no trouble over what I do or say, except that it should be true and sincere. Whatever it is, he will judge it fairly. And if he did not, why should I care? Yes, I should care. I like him--I like him very much. It would be a comfort to me to have him for a friend--one of my very own. In some degree, he treats me as such; today, for instance, he told me more about himself than he ever did to any one of us. It came out accidentally. I cannot endure a man who, at first acquaintance, indulges you with his autobiography in full. Such an one must be either a puppy or an idiot. --Ah, there I am again, at my harsh judgments, which Doctor Urquhart has so often tacitly reproved. This good man, who has seen more of the world and its wickedness than I am ever likely to see, is yet the most charitable man I ever knew. To return. Before we reached Rockmount, the sky had clouded over, and in an hour it was a thoroughly wet afternoon. Penelope went upstairs to write her Sunday letter, and Augustus and Lisabel gave broad hints that they wished the drawing-room all to themselves. Perforce, Doctor Urquhart and I had to entertain ourselves. I took him into the greenhouse, where he lectured to me on the orchidacea and vegetation of the tropics generally,--to his own content, doubtless, and partially to mine. I like to hear his talking, so wise, yet so simple; a freshness almost boyish seems to linger in his nature still, and he has the thoroughly boyish peculiarity of taking pleasure in little things. He spent half an hour in reviving a big brown bee which had grown torpid with cold, and there was in his eyes a kindness, as over a human creature, when he gave into my charge his "little patient," whom I promised to befriend. (There he is, poor old fellow, fast asleep on a flower-pot, till the first bright morning I can turn him out.) "I am afraid, though, he will soon get into trouble again, and not find so kind a friend," said I, to Doctor Urquhart. "He will intoxicate himself in the nearest flower-cup, and seek repentance and restoration too late." "I hope not," said the Doctor, sadly and gravely. I said I was sorry for having made a jest upon his favourite doctrine of repentance and restoration of sinners, which he seemed always both to preach and to practice. "Do I? Perhaps. Do you not think it's very much, needed in this world?" I said, I had not lived long enough in the world to find out. "I forgot how young you were."