Poor man! I look back to those days and realize how little we purblind associates of his knew what a fight for strength he was making before our very eyes. It is one thing to observe suffering, it is another to experience it. Those who belong to the robust ranks of health, who arise in the morning with a song or a whistle on their lips, and at night drop without restlessness into slumber, those who know not what it is to be nervous and irritable, all those of sound body and sound mind, have no right to pass judgment upon Dunlevy and his kind. I say this because I am reminded that after Dunlevy had gone that day at luncheon, Crowther said to us: “I don’t believe that man would have the spunk to run a hundred yards. He lacks gumption. There is too much of the woman about him. Please pass the pickles.” I pondered upon this utterance as I left Crowther eating his third helping of beef steak. And I wondered which is the more noble--the courage that comes from strength or the bravery born of suffering? There was one man, a black man, who understood Dunlevy and his condition better than we did. He was that old negro body-servant, a relic of plantation days. I saw his good, open, loyal face when I went to Dunlevy’s chambers during his illness at the University of Virginia. His name was Sandy. Could I know what Sandy must have known, I might have a tale that would be better left untold. DUNLEVY AT HARVARD. Long afterwards, a year and more, I went to Harvard College for the purpose of pursuing special studies. I was standing one rainy November afternoon in the stone vestibule of Gore Hall. A figure approached with his head close under an umbrella, which he closed as he entered the library. It was Dunlevy. Our eyes twinkled a moment, then we each grasped the other’s hand. It was like coming from the cold into a warm room to meet a southerner in New England. “I am afraid you don’t remember me;” I said. “Don’t I!” he exclaimed; “do you suppose I could forget the man who came to see me twice when I took sick at the dear old ‘U. Va.’ and who is also an admirer of Cardinal Newman’s style?” His memory astonished me; and it touched me to think that the man should be grateful for my simple attention of calling upon him when he was ill. After a few words of greeting I told him that I had an appointment and should have to hurry on, but that if he would tell me where he lived I would come to see him. He told me the number of his room in Beck Hall. “I have a corner window in the rear;” he said, as we parted.