'I met him outside just a moment ago,' I replied, 'and he certainly seems to have won little Maggie's heart, but from my recollection of her half a dozen "sweeties" would explain that feat. And after all,' I continued judicially, 'some of the greatest ruffians that ever lived were extremely fond of children. There was Herod, of course, but he was the exception that proves the rule.' 'Ah,' sighed my friend, 'that terrible London atmosphere! How it cankers the human affections! The theory of the law, I believe, is that every man should be considered innocent till he has been proved guilty; but you lawyers, reversing this in practice, hold every man guilty till he prove his innocence.' 'How about his hair?' I inquired rather unkindly. 'His hair?' my friend queried, with a puzzled expression. 'Oh, I see what you mean,' he continued almost immediately, endeavouring to shed a _soupçon_ of a smile over his seriously earnest countenance. 'But don't notice that, please, or you may make him reckless. For now is the critical time,' he added solemnly, with the professional manner of a physician making his diagnosis; 'if he gets safely over this his cure may be regarded as practically assured. 'The great thing is to believe in a man, to cultivate little by little his sense of self-respect; by "believing men to be better than they are," one may even, as has been so well said, "make them better than they are." In England we have always gone on a wrong principle; we worship success, worldly success, far too much, and have scant sympathy with the unfortunate. My friend outside says that he stole a leg of mutton for his starving daughter. The result is he cannot now get a situation, and his daughter has been taken from him, and is now in a home. Well, if the man be treated with contumely, he may very likely despair and give up all hope of improvement. Treat him well, on the other hand, and you may yet turn him into a useful citizen.' 'You put a premium on wrong-doing,' said I, as I shook my head at his argument, smiling, however, at the impassioned face before me. His high, narrow forehead with the ruffled upstanding hair betrayed the enthusiast; the broad, refined, and eager lips marked a perennial emotion within; his eyes, notwithstanding their wonderful clarity, had a far-away look in the depths of them; a spare form, thin wrists, and shrunken hands completed the presentation of the idealistic, mystical, Don Quixote type of human nature. While I thus reflected, my friend continued to pour out fresh instances proving satisfactorily to any non-prejudiced mind the correctness of his theory. 'But what are you going to do with him?' I asked eventually, 'for after all that is the important thing. I mean, his being here with you may be very nice for him, but it doesn't teach him a trade, and you can't afford to keep him, I know, for long.'