"You're an old brick, Buckhurst!" cried Mac, giving the jovial farmer a thundering slap on the back, and a hearty grasp of his hand; "and you shall drink the boy's health with Ned and me this day, or I'll know the reason why. Ned Blount, a'n't it glorious? Said I not, you ill-omened bird, said I not, _'Il y a toujours un Dieu pour les enfans et pour les ivrognes'_?--So you came down with Thorne to ease the poor little fellow's mind, did you, Buckhurst? That's right, and you shall see the picture, by Jove! And you'll say, when you see it, that such a picture were cheap at the cost of duckings for a dozen Buckhursts. Now tell me truly, what do you think made him push you in? "Of course, it was the pison, Sir,--a baby like that wouldn't harm a flea. I thought maybe, until I see Dr. Thorne, that he done it out of mischieviousness, as boys will do, you know,--jest as they steal a feller's apples, and knock his turkeys of'n the roost,--but yander's not one of them kind; so he must 'a' been crazy, and I'm rael sorry he's been so bad put to about it,--I am, indeed." Here the inner door was opened, and Thorne joined us, with a moisture about his eyes that he used afterwards to deny most vehemently. "Buckhurst, he wants to see you; go in there," said he,--adding, in a lower tone, "Now, mind you, the child's delicate as spun glass; so be careful." "Come in, Mr. Buckhurst," called Clarian. The worthy farmer looked to right and left, as if he would much rather have made his escape, but, impelled by a shove from the Doctor, he ran his fingers through his coarse hair, and, with a very red and "I-wish-I-was-out-of-this" face, went in, closing the door behind him. "Phew!" said Thorne, seating himself somewhat testily, after having filled and lighted a pipe,--"Phew! So that's over, and I a'n't sorry; it's as bad as reading the 'Diary of a Physician.' The boy will be all right now, and the lesson won't hurt him, though it has been a rough one. But no more metaphysics for him, Ned Blount! And, boys, let this be a warning to you. He's too brittle a toy to be handled in your rough fashion." "You needn't tell us that, Thorne," said Mac, drawing a long breath. "Catch me kicking over children's baby-houses again, or telling 'em ghost-stories in the dark!" "He vows never again to touch brush, crayon, or pencil; and if he is the devotee you describe him to be, Ned, I would not advise you to oppose him in his determination. You must keep him here till vacation, and next term he can exchange his room. Macbeth's company will never be very agreeable to him, I should judge; and it will not do to let him destroy the picture." Thorne puffed away vigorously for a minute or two. "That boy ought to turn preacher, Mac. He touched me nearer just now than I have been touched for an age. "'His voice was a sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tunable with every saddest grief, Till those sad eyes, so spiritual and clear,'