So far as intention went, he was the kindest man alive. He never visited poor sick persons without taking with him in his pocket some little delicacy calculated to disagree with them and make them worse. He arranged yachting excursions for bad sailors, entirely at his own expense, and seemed to regard their subsequent agonies as ingratitude. He loved to manage a wedding. Once he planned matters so that the bride arrived at the altar three-quarters of an hour before the groom, which led to unpleasantness upon a day that should have been filled only with joy, and once he forgot the clergyman. But he was always ready to admit when he made a mistake. At funerals, also, he was to the fore, pointing out to the grief-stricken relatives how much better it was for all concerned that the corpse was dead, and expressing a pious hope that they would soon join it. The chiefest delight of his life, however, was to be mixed up in other people's domestic quarrels. No domestic quarrel for miles round was complete without him. He generally came in as mediator, and finished as leading witness for the appellant. As a journalist or politician his wonderful grasp of other people's business would have won for him esteem. The error he made was working it out in practice. THE MAN WHO LIVED FOR OTHERS The first time we met, to speak, he was sitting with his back against a pollard willow, smoking a clay pipe. He smoked it very slowly, but very conscientiously. After each whiff he removed the pipe from his mouth and fanned away the smoke with his cap. "Feeling bad?" I asked from behind a tree, at the same time making ready for a run, big boys' answers to small boys' impertinences being usually of the nature of things best avoided. To my surprise and relief--for at second glance I perceived I had under- estimated the length of his legs--he appeared to regard the question as a natural and proper one, replying with unaffected candour, "Not yet." My desire became to comfort him--a sentiment I think he understood and was grateful for. Advancing into the open, I sat down over against him, and watched him for a while in silence. Presently he said:-- "Have you ever tried drinking beer?" I admitted I had not. "Oh, it is beastly stuff," he rejoined with an involuntary shudder. Rendered forgetful of present trouble by bitter recollection of the past, he puffed away at his pipe carelessly and without judgment. "Do you often drink it?" I inquired. "Yes," he replied gloomily; "all we fellows in the fifth form drink beer and smoke pipes." A deeper tinge of green spread itself over his face. He rose suddenly and made towards the hedge. Before he reached it, however, he stopped and addressed me, but without turning round. "If you follow me, young 'un, or look, I'll punch your head," he said swiftly, and disappeared with a gurgle.