“I don't know how to say it,” began he, “and I don't know whether I ought to say it, but somehow I feel as if I could give my heart's blood if everybody would behave to me the way you do. I don't mean, mind you, so generously, but treating me as if--as if--as if--” gulped he out at last, “as if I was a gentleman.” “And why not? As there is nothing in your station that should deny that claim, why should any presume to treat you otherwise?” “Because I'm not one!” blurted he out; and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed bitterly. “Come, come, my poor fellow, don't be down-hearted. I 'm not much older than yourself, but I 've seen a good deal of life; and, mark _my_ words, the price a man puts on himself is the very highest penny the world will ever bid for him; he 'll not always get _that_, but he 'll never--no, never, get a farthing beyond it!” Tom stared vacantly at the speaker, not very sure whether he understood the speech, or that it had any special application to him. “When you come to know life as well as I do,” continued Conyers, who had now launched into a very favorite theme, “you'll learn the truth of what I say. Hold your head high; and if the world desires to see you, it must at least look up!” “Ay, but it might laugh too!” said Tom, with a bitter gravity, which considerably disconcerted the moralist, who pitched away his cigar impatiently, and set about selecting another. “I suspect I understand _your_ nature. For,” said he, after a moment or two, “I have rather a knack in reading people. Just answer me frankly a few questions.” “Whatever you like,” said the other, in a half-sulky sort of manner. “Mind,” said Conyers, eagerly, “as there can be no offence intended, you'll not feel any by whatever I may say.” “Go on,” said Tom, in the same dry tone. “Ain't you obstinate?” “I am.” “I knew it. We had not talked half an hour together when I detected it, and I said to myself, 'That fellow is one so rooted in his own convictions, it is scarcely possible to shake him.'” “What next?” asked Tom. “You can't readily forgive an injury; you find it very hard to pardon the man who has wronged you.” “I do not; if he did n't go on persecuting me, I would n't think of him at all.” “Ah, that's a mistake. Well, I know you better than you know yourself; you _do_ keep up the memory of an old grudge,--you can't help it.” “Maybe so, but I never knew it.” “You have, however, just as strong a sentiment of gratitude.” “I never knew that, either,” muttered he; “perhaps because it has had so little provocation!” “Bear in mind,” said Conyers, who was rather disconcerted by the want of concurrence he had met with, “that I am in a great measure referring to latent qualities,--things which probably require time and circumstances to develop.”