“One question, dear: now the Union has beaten you, they will not be so spiteful, will they?” “Oh, no. That is all over. The conquerors can afford to be good-natured. Confound them!” “Then that is all I care about. Then do not leave Hillsborough. Why should you? Wait here patiently. You do not know what may turn up.” “What, mother, do YOU want to stay here now?” said Henry, opening his eyes with astonishment. “Wherever my son is happy and safe from harm, there I wish to stay--of course.” Next morning Henry called on Dr. Amboyne, and found him in his study, teaching what looked a boy of sixteen, but was twenty-two, to read monosyllables. On Little's entrance the pupil retired front his uphill work, and glowered with vacillating eyes. The lad had a fair feminine face, with three ill things in it: a want, a wildness, and a weakness. To be sure Henry saw it at a disadvantage: for vivid intelligence would come now and then across this mild, wild, vacant face, like the breeze that sweeps a farm-yard pond. “Good-morning, Little. This is your fellow-workman.” “He does not look up to much,” said Henry, with all a workman's bluntness. “What, you have found him out! Never mind; he can beat the town at one or two things, and it is for these we will use him. Some call him an idiot. The expression is neat and vigorous, but not precise; so I have christened him the Anomaly. Anomaly, this is Mr. Little; go and shake hands with him, and admire him.” The Anomaly went directly, and gazed into Little's face for some time. He then made his report. “He is beautiful and black.”