“I 'll tell the Chief you think so. I 'll say that you dropped the remark to myself, of course,--never meaning to dictate anything to _him_.” Beattie shook his head in sign of doubt. “I know him well, better perhaps than any one, and I know there's no more generous man breathing; but he must not be coerced,--he must not be even influenced, where the question be one for a decision. As he said to me one day, 'I want the evidence, sir, I don't want your speech to it.'” “There 's the evidence, then,” said Beattie,--“that note with its wavering letters, weak and uncertain as the fingers that traced them,--show him that. Say, if you like, that _I_ read it and thought the lad's case critical. If, after that, he wishes to talk to me on the subject, I 'm ready to state my opinion. If the boy be like his father, a few tender words and a little show of interest for him will be worth all the tonics that ever were brewed.” “It's the grandfather's nature too; but the world has never known it,--probably never will know it,” said Haire. “In that I agree with you,” said Beattie, dryly. “He regards it as a sort of weakness when people discover any act of generosity or any trait of kindliness about him; and do you know,” added he, confidentially, “I have often thought that what the world regarded as irritability and sharpness was nothing more nor less than shyness,--just shyness.” “I certainly never suspected that he was the victim of that quality.” “No, I imagine not. A man must know him as I do to-understand it. I remember one day, long, long ago, I went so far as to throw out a half hint that I thought he labored under this defect; he only smiled and said, 'You suspect me of diffidence. I am diffident,--no man more so, sir; but it is of the good or great qualities in other men.' Was n't that a strange reply? I never very clearly understood it,--do you?” “I suspect I do; but here comes a message to us.” Haire spoke a word with the servant, and then, turning: to Beattie, said: “He wants to see me. I 'll just step in, and be back in a moment.” Beattie promised not to leave till he returned, and strolled along by the side of a little brook which meandered tastefully through the greensward. He had fallen into a revery,--a curious inquiry within himself whether it were a boon or an evil for a man to have acquired that sort of influence over another mind which makes his every act and word seem praiseworthy and excellent. “I wonder is the Chief the better or the worse for this indiscriminating attachment? Does it suggest a standard to attain to, or does it merely minister to self-love and conceit? Which is it? which is it?” cried he, aloud, as he stood and gazed on the rippling rivulet beside him. “Shall I tell you?” said a low, sweet voice; and Lucy Lendrick slipped her arm within his as she spoke,--“shall I tell you, doctor?” “Do, by all means.”